


Trost und Freude

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Tree, Gen, Hunters, Wee!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 74,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This fic was written during Season 3's original airing. It is not canon-compliant for later seasons, "Origins," or any of the tie-in materials. 
> 
> Originally part of a Thursday Fic Exchange as a gift for Celtic Cookie (LJ).

Saginaw, Michigan  
November 1990

Wade Ellis’s boot treads squeaked slightly with every step he took down the wide, central mall corridor. At this time of night, there were no crowds to absorb the sound. His step echoed off the skylights, which weren’t yet covered in snow. The muted nighttime lights of the corridor reflected in the darkened store windows. Every so often, Wade’s security badge glinted in the window display opposite him. It made him twitch every time until he realized it was just his own reflection. Back in the video room, Jerry was probably laughing his ass off every time Wade jumped.

Up ahead, at the center of the mall, the two wings formed a crossroads and the giant space where they met had been transformed with a host of decorations and tiny twinkling lights. Santa’s Workshop had just been opened for the season two days ago, one week before Thanksgiving. Wade didn’t care for that—the holidays were encroaching on each other more and more every year. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before the mall started putting up its Christmas decorations before Halloween. But here the display was, all ready to go, and well in place in time for Black Friday. That tradition, Wade figured, was secure for the ages.

Wade wandered on his rounds toward the vast array of decorations. The Workshop was laid out in a large circle. At the center of everything stood the massive Christmas tree, nearly 20 feet high. It was so tall that the company had had to bring in a cherry-picker to place the tree-topper, which changed every year. This year it was an angel with an enormous wingspan. Wade wasn’t sure how it stayed up there.

In front of the tree, fanning out from 2:00 to 10:00 on the “clockface” of the circle, the red carpet wound through a miniature labyrinth back and forth through the majority of the decorations, comprising enough square footage to hold about a thousand little ankle-biters on line to sit on Santa’s knee. They did that at the entrance to the Workshop façade, which was built out in front of the tree where the kids could see him nearly all the time while in line. Santa’s throne stood under the eaves, animated elves visible through the “window” cut into the wall. From there, they passed out to the left side, past the photographers’ tables. Their parents could pick them up and order photos at the same time. As they progressed through the display in the line, they were treated to a number of distractions: three-foot-tall skaters on a “lake” made of blue foil, an actual “North Pole” complete with red and white barber’s stripes, reindeer, and a snowman made to look enough like Frosty to be unmistakable, but not so close they’d get sued.

As if anyone would bother with a small-time mall in Saginaw.

There was also “Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen,” as everyone referred to it, which was a little hut where the employees could take a little breather if they needed it. This was placed to the right of the workshop façade, with a short track running between the two in what Wade thought of as the “back” of the display.

The whole area pretty much resembled a miniature village in the middle of the mall, There were even archways at the “front” and “rear” entrances to the carpet. Wade thought it looked like a Kincaid print…if Kincaid had been drinking heavily.

And not a menorah in sight. Wade grinned. _Take that, you Christmas-killing fucks_ , he thought.

The animatronics were all turned off, of course, but the mall had left the tree lights twinkling during the night. Wade paused and lit a cigarette, admiring the view. He liked it better this way, even if the decorations looked a little unsettling at night. The tree was the only pretty part of the display, as far as he was concerned.

But then Wade remembered, standing there with his smoke, that the lights weren’t supposed to stay on until two weeks before Christmas, when the mall’s extended hours kicked in. He crossed the rope and stanchion line to dig under the tree for the cord. He’d unplug, save the company money. He might even leave a note giving himself the credit.

As he knelt down, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked over, shining his flashlight; the beam fell on a skater, smiling creepily in the dimness. Deciding it was a trick of light like the glint off his badge, Wade bent down under the branches again.

This time, he heard a thud behind him.

“Jerry, if that’s you playing games,” Wade threatened, feeling foolish for getting spooked. 

His hand found the electric cord. He gave it an experimental tug to figure out where the plug end could be.

One of the tree branches thwapped him in the face. His cigarette fell out of his mouth and he leaned forward to put it out hastily. He lost his balance and sprawled in the fake snow blanketing the tree skirt. Spitting plastic confetti, Wade got to all fours.

Something kicked him in the seat of his pants.

“Jerry!” he shouted, flipping over.

It wasn’t Jerry. It wasn’t anyone. He blinked, but no person materialized in front of him. “Dammit,” he muttered. He rolled to his knees again, reached for the cord….

_ZZZT!_ The electric shock made him jerk his hand back.

Shaking his hand in pain, Wade decided to abandon his act of goodwill. Screw the company if they were dumb enough to leave the lights on over a month ahead of schedule. He flexed his toes to leverage himself to his feet. He took a step on his right…and tripped when his left foot insisted on following—as if attached to his other shoe. He cracked his chin on the stanchion post going down, bit his tongue and chipped one of his teeth on the impact. As he lay on his back, staring up at the angel atop the tree, Wade wondered how on earth “Nobody” could have tied his shoelaces together.

~*~

Saginaw, Michigan  
December 1990

Dean kicked snow off his boots and watched how the clumps melted in the steam rising from the vent by the curb. He shifted his backpack up on his shoulder. 

“Come on, Sammy,” he muttered. “Where the hell are you?”

A gust of wind blew up and snow dusted his face. “Dammit,” he grumbled, and braced himself for the shitstorm of woe that would accompany his next action. But there was no help for it: He had to go inside Jerome Elementary and find his brother.

At eleven years of age, Dean had already seen the inside of at least eight school systems—nine if you counted that horrible parochial school in Denton, which Dean didn’t, because Dad had pulled him out inside of a week. Here in Saginaw, they had the most complicated system Dean had ever encountered. Dad had tried to get him and Sammy enrolled in one of the combined K-8 schools, but class sizes had dwindled and they’d closed one of the two in the district; the other was full. So Dean went to South Middle and Sam was placed at Jerome, just over half a mile away.

At least it wasn’t horribly out of the way for Dean to drop Sammy off and pick him up each day—he’d turn on Division, hook a right onto Sweet, and then they’d cut back to Elm on Vermont, to the grungy apartment Dad had found by the railroad, just off Maine. But Sammy had a habit of not being where he was supposed to be, especially as it got colder, which meant that Dean had to go look for him more often than not. 

And Dean stuck out every time he had to go into the building. Everything was sized for kids at least half a foot shorter than him, from the placement of the water fountains to the size of the desks and tables. He tried to imagine Dad fitting himself into one of the miniature plastic molded seats that Sammy and his classmates used, on a parent-teacher night or something, and just couldn’t picture it.

Not that they’d been around for parent-teacher night. They’d come into town about two weeks too late for his. Or so Dean’s teacher, Mrs. Fontana, had informed his father. Dean wasn’t too sure whether Sammy’s class even had parents’ nights, but if they had, he supposed it would have been around the same time of year.

And what on earth had possessed his father to move to Michigan a month before Christmas still eluded Dean completely. Dad had picked them up at school when they were released at noon on the day before Thanksgiving, and they’d driven to Pastor Jim’s. On Friday morning, they were off again, and by the following Monday, they had started in their new, separate, schools.

So here they were, and had been, with only two weeks left before the holidays. At least this Christmas would most definitely be white, from the look of the grounds outside the school. 

Dean stamped his feet to get feeling back in them. He hated going in the “little kids’ school” as one of his classmates had called it on his first day at South. It would have been different if they’d shared the same building. Dean knew his dad had done the best he could to find two schools so close to together—he’d explained to them both that most all of the middle schools and elementary schools were much farther apart than these two. Dean knew the location of their apartment was deliberate, too, allowing Sam an easy walk and Dean a slightly longer one. Still, Dean found it hard enough to feel comfortable among the strangers in his class without the additional stigma of “hanging out” with the babies.

Dean’s teeth were chattering and it was getting dark enough that the streetlights outside were coming on. He walked up to the double-doors and ducked inside. A wave of warm air blasted him as he passed into the foyer. Dean shed his hat and unzipped the puffy coat Dad had bought for him at a thrift store within a day of arriving in Saginaw. It was amazing how much colder it was here compared to Blue Earth, even though Pastor Jim’s place was almost at the same latitude. Dad said it was because of the lake.

Dean’s nose started running from the change in air. He wiped it on the cuff of his sleeve, stuffing his gloves in his pockets. Sam still wore mittens, and Dad even had to put the clips on them and string them through his sleeves so he wouldn’t lose them (“idiot mittens,” Dean delighted in telling Sam), but Dean had been wearing gloves since before he was Sam’s age. “Can’t pull a trigger wearing mittens,” he’d argued to his Dad soon after their third shooting lesson. Dad saw the logic in that, and the following winter, he presented Dean with a new pair of Thinsulate gloves for Christmas. They were a little big, but Dad said he’d grow into them.

He had. He’d grown into and out of them, poking a hole through the right index finger before Dad replaced them with another pair. These had Velcro straps across the wrist, like racing gloves, and non-skid pads on the thumb and fingers, for reinforcement. Like his watch cap and the knitted scarf that Mrs. Hildegaard had made for him last year, they weren’t remotely fashionable, but they were warm, and more importantly, they were _cool_. 

It must have been really cold, or the wind was blowing really hard, though, because even through his gloves, Dean’s hands had turned red. He felt pins and needles jab his fingers as the heat of the school corridor hit them. He lingered another moment under the hot air blower by the door before tromping down the hallway toward Sam’s classroom.

He didn’t get as far as Room 224, however. As he passed the lower doors of the auditorium, he saw kids inside and heard a teacher’s voice.

“Make a straight line—no a _single_ straight line, Michael Foucault—and let Ginny be in the middle, Chris, she _is_ the Narrator— _everyone_ in line, Sam Winchester—”

Dean reversed himself and walked into the auditorium. What was Sam doing in there? Sam was always volunteering to do things in school—things he should have known better than to offer. Like when his class at Piedmont Central had a bake sale and Sam said he was sure he could bring cupcakes. Or the time he told his teacher that their father would be happy to chaperone a field trip to the Children’s Museum, since he didn’t actually work during the day. Dad had been livid over that one—not because of the trip, but because some woman from the County had shown up to “verify his employment status” and Dad had had to pull some fast moves to avoid getting investigated. As Dean threaded his way into the auditorium past the rows of seats toward the stage, he braced himself for whatever fresh torture Sam had stuck up his hand to undergo.

He stopped at the edge of the seats, just short of where the teacher would notice him, but where he could see the action. The teacher finished arranging the kids the way she wanted and signaled to another adult who was seated at the piano.

“And all together, please,” she chanted over the intro. As a ragged body, the kids started singing:

_O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,_   
_wie treu sind deine Blätter…._

All except Sammy. Sammy looked from side to side at the others in the line, as if reading their lips would help him learn the song. As he cast about, he saw Dean and grinned. Dean shook his head violently, willing his brother not to give his position away. But Sammy broke ranks and zoomed down the line to the steps at the edge of the stage, closest to the aisle where Dean stood.

“Dean!” he shouted. “Sorry, Miz Johnson! M’bruther Dean’s here. I tolja I’d hafta go when he came for me,” he said very quickly to the teacher in the second row of seats. Sammy didn’t wait to be dismissed; he just bolted to a section of seats on his left (Dean’s right) where kids’ coats and bags were all strewn about. “Come on, Dean! We better hurry or Dad will wonder what happened to us!” Sammy said pointedly.

“Uh…yeah,” Dean said, coming out from his shadow. “Hi,” he added shyly at the teacher, who was clearly not happy at the ruination of her tableau.

“Keep singing!” she ordered the others. It was only then that Dean realized they had all trailed off to watch the drama. The piano-player executed a flourish to take the song back and kids began to chime in again.

“Sorry to drag him away,” Dean said brightly to Miss Johnson, “But it’s getting late and we walk, so….”

“Wait!” Miss Johnson said. “You can’t walk, not when it’s so cold out. Sam, back up on stage. I’ll take you both home when we’re done.”

“Oh, that’s not—”

“I insist. It’s much too cold and the streets are slick, it’s dark… No, you sit there and we’ll be done shortly.”

Dean shrugged at Sammy. Sammy, aware that his reprieve had just evaporated, handed his bag and coat to Dean and made his way back to his spot in line. 

“From the top of the number, please, Mrs. Olean,” Miss Johnson requested. “Smile, children!”

_O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,_  
wie treu sind deine Blätter!  
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,  
wie treu sind deine Blätter…. 

Dean resisted the urge to plug his ears. The song was incomprehensible, for one thing, but more to the point, the sounds of all those treble, slightly off-key voices grated on his ears as sharply as fingernails on reinforced glass.

By the time the song was over, a slew of parents had shown up to collect their kids. They all seemed to have a question for Miss Johnson, or want “just a moment” of her time. Dean suspected that this was another case of Sam not passing along a note that had been meant for Dad: _The children will be kept late on Monday for rehearsal of our crappy holiday pageant. Please come and get them an hour later than usual after school, because they need a scarring experience that will damage them for life and give them something to discuss with their shrinks when they grow up. Oh, and in case you were wondering, no, none of them have any talent._

He felt Sam lean against his arm while they waited. “Please, _please_ , tell me we’re moving before the holidays,” Sam said. It was uncharacteristic of Sam to hate school, but Dean couldn’t argue, not if this was what the 2nd Grade had been up to.

The throng of parents and kids soon dissipated and Miss Johnson gathered up her things and put on her coat. “My car’s in the back,” she announced, leading them out the back of the auditorium to a different hallway, down half a flight of stairs, and out the back door.

Fresh snow had begun falling while they were inside, so Dean helped her clean the car off while she got it started and Sam settled himself in the back. Her heater worked really well, at least, and by the time Dean climbed in, the car was very warm.

“Where do you live?” she asked him.

“Sixteen hundred Maine Street,” Dean recited. Of any move to a new town, learning the new address and phone was easily the most tedious task, but it was just about as important as rehearsing the story of why they’d moved, where they came from, and what Dad supposedly did.

“That’s the apartment building on the corner of Maple?”

“Yes’m,” Dean said.

“Oh, you really do live close then, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean told her. He left off his rebellious thought, _and we could’ve been home a long time ago if you hadn’t made us stay_. But it was nice not to have to walk, even if it was a pain to wait around.

The drive took about as long as it had taken to clean off the car. Sam and Dean thanked her for the ride, politely, because Dad wouldn’t have had it otherwise. Dean pulled the key out of his pocket.

“Oh, wait a minute!” Miss Johnson called out through the passenger window. “Sam, is your father home?”

Sam looked at Dean before answering. “No, he’s at work.”

“Oh,” Miss Johnson said. She looked disappointed. “Only, it sounds like he didn’t know that you’re in the pageant, Sam. Otherwise I’m sure he would have arranged it so you and Dean didn’t have to walk after dark. So I wanted to make sure he knows about the rest of the rehearsals, and also find out for sure whether he’ll be able to come see you.”

Dean put himself between his brother and her window. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Johnson,” Dean said.

She smiled at him the way someone smiles at people who say they believe in ghosts. “Why is that, dear?” she asked. “Don’t you think your father would want to see Sam in his show?”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Dean said, warming to his lie. “It’s that…we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” he supplied. “So technically, we aren’t supposed to be in any kind of…um…Christmas pageant, like that.”

Miss Johnson’s smile never wavered. “Well, technically, it’s not religious,” she said, using his word back on him. “This is a public school. It’s more of a celebration of multiple cultures and holiday traditions. In the spirit of the season.”

Dean nodded with a knowing grimace. “Yeah, but really? Any kind of performance like that…it’s kind of against our religion.”

At that, Miss Johnson’s smile finally withered and was replaced by a horrified, guilty look. “Oh, my. But…Sam never said…and I’m sure I checked his records and it didn’t say anything about….”

“That’s okay, Miss Johnson,” Dean assured her quickly. “Sometimes when we transfer in the middle of a term, they don’t get all the records right. I’m sure it’s not _your_ fault. But…” he leaned over the door, “it would probably be better if you didn’t make Sammy be in the thing. Just…our Dad? He’s pretty strict about that stuff.”

Miss Johnson ducked her head a few times. Dean shielded her from Sam’s view. He didn’t trust that Sam would be able to keep a straight face. He was grateful that between leaning into the car and the noise of Miss Johnson’s heater and the car engine, Sam couldn’t hear what Dean was telling her.

“I…I’ll make sure that we reassign his part. It’s funny, you know, because we actually had to take lines away from other kids to give Sam something to do. We’ve been planning this since Fall Break.”

Dean quirked the corner of his mouth in sympathy. “Gosh, I wish someone had told you. We could have saved you the trouble.”

“Well…thank you, Dean,” Miss Johnson said.

“Sure thing, Miss Johnson. Oh, and by the way? You need a new fan belt. You might want to check the compressor on your heater, too.” He tapped the windowsill as he pulled himself back out of the car and walked Sam up the steps. He opened the vestibule door with his key and once inside, they turned and waved to signal her that they were okay.

As her car pulled away from the curb, Dean smiled at Sam. 

“Whaddidja tell her, Dean?” Sam asked once they passed through the second security door.

“Told her you couldn’t be in that dumb pageant. Against our religion.”

Sam beamed up at Dean. “Dean, that’s like the best lie ever!”

~*~

John got home that night after the boys were in bed. Dean had left the kitchen light on and a sandwich in the refrigerator. John wrapped up the sandwich for his lunch the next day and pulled out a can of soup. While he appreciated Dean’s effort, it was bitter cold out and he desperately wanted something hot for supper. 

While the soup reached the boil, John unbuckled his wide, patent-leather belt and sat down on the couch. His black boots were leaving puddles on the floor, but he had to sit to get them on and off—the store hadn’t had a pair with wide enough calves, so these were a really tight fit. He struggled with the left one, unsure how the boots had turned into giant suction cups. With a sound not unlike a bowstring releasing, the boot came free. Groaning in relief, John wiggled his liberated ankle and repeated the process on the right.

He unbuttoned his red jacket and poured himself a finger of Beam, not bothering with ice. He’d had enough of ice and snow today—surrounded by the fake stuff all day and confronted with the real stuff on the drive home. He thought about the all-weather radials on the Impala and wondered if he should trade in the rear ones for snow tires. Decided against it; with any luck, he’d wrap up this job by the end of the year and he’d move them someplace warmer for the rest of the winter.

He stirred the soup, letting the aroma and the steam follow the hard burn of the alcohol to warm him up. His “work uniform” was warm—red velour did _not_ breathe—but the wind around the mall parking lot had been fierce. Especially since by the time he left, there really weren’t many other cars to help absorb the gusts.

Working as a department store Santa sucked.

But it meant honest pay without a lengthy background check, and for once having his own kids was considered an asset rather than a liability. Most importantly, working at the chain store gave him access to the mall after hours. 

The mall where a series of odd accidents had been occurring since mid-November. 

Small accidents, such as a malfunctioning alarm, had escalated toward the end of the month, and seemed only to be getting worse as the Christmas season wore on. Every day and night, shoppers were either tripped while walking through the mall, or someone spilled hot chocolate and got burned, or even (John’s favorite) got hit by a moving ashcan. At least one unlucky shopper had been taken to the emergency room for her injuries. Most recently, one of the Santas had been attacked, or so he claimed, by a rain of glass ornaments. He had been hospitalized, lucky to keep his eye.

Unfortunately, whatever it was didn’t show up on EMF, and it didn’t seem to be very active when the mall was empty.

John left the soup on the stove to change out of his Santa suit before eating. The last thing he needed was to get a stain on the damn thing and lose the deposit he’d had to pay for it. Strictly speaking, he should have changed at the store, but he had to admit he liked the extra warmth it provided when he was coming home so late. He checked inside the boys’ room on his way through the hall. They shared a mattress on the floor and a hodge-podge of sheets, two Army blankets, and an acrylic University of Michigan throw that had been left by the apartment’s previous occupant. Sammy as always was recognizable only from the tufted dark hair that stuck out between sheet and pillow; Dean had folded himself into his usual pretzel, one leg hugged against his chest and the other outflung, arms tucked fore and aft. From the door, John could see that the salt line on the windowsill was undisturbed. Smiling, he pulled the door closed on them quietly.

The soup was hot and filling, if not particularly delectable. John washed up efficiently and came into the living room. The previous tenant had been evicted, according to the building superintendent; John had kicked in an additional two weeks’ rent in exchange for the items that the landlord had put into storage to sell later, including the sofa and a fairly new TV. Settling himself on the former, he clicked the latter’s remote and thumbed the “mute” button until he found something suitably mindless. Then he turned the volume low enough to avoid disturbing his sons’ slumber. He flipped open his journal and sipped the shot of whiskey while he consulted his old case notes and added a few new ideas.

The witnesses’ accounts strongly suggested a supernatural source, rather than teen pranks, but John wasn’t sure yet whether the victims pointed to a common denominator. Other than they had been at the mall, near the central North Pole display. The Santa’s Workshop Santa had been the most recent victim. John thought maybe he could scam a shift or two as the mall Santa, rather than playing Santa at the anchor store, since it seemed to be centered on that area. He could keep an eye out for anything strange while he was sitting there enduring the succession of kids so much like his own, and yet so different. 

Dean believed in things most people didn’t think existed, but they weren’t happy things like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Sam might still have some innocence, but to be honest, John wasn’t sure how much the little boy had begun to suspect. He still slipped a quarter under Sam’s pillow whenever he lost a tooth, but he was fairly certain Sam knew that it came from him and not the Tooth Fairy. (Dean, of course, had come out of the bathroom and run to John just after Sam’s first birthday, bloody tooth in one hand, and the other one outstretched. His look had said, “We both know it’s not real, so just let’s not pretend.” John had forced himself to smile, made a big deal out of keeping the tooth, and given Dean the quarter, which Dean immediately put into the slot of a prize dispenser at the diner they’d been in at the time. Later, when Dean was sleeping in the car, John had pulled over, laid his head and arms on the steering wheel, and cursed himself for ten minutes.) He’d been utterly unable to keep the truth from Dean; if he had anything to say about it, he would let Sammy keep his childish beliefs as long as possible.

John finished off his drink and got himself a beer to chase it, dragging himself back to the present. He felt sure that the North Pole and Santa’s Workshop were tied to what was going on. Even so, there was a staggering amount of crap stuffed into the display, any item of which could be the source of the trouble, like a haunted object or a focus for an evil spirit to latch onto. John groaned at the thought of having to research the history of every ornament and decoration.

His doodles in the journal turned into a rough sketch of the Workshop display. He outlined the large hut where Santa’s throne stood, its candy cane pillars and gingerbread roof overhanging the rich backdrop, against which hundreds of kids got their pictures snapped each day. He made a note of the photography stand and the table where parents paid (through the nose) for the color prints. Next he added in the false lake where the animatronic figures skated on tracks…. “Real, not plastic?” he noted next to one of his drawings, with an arrow pointing to it. He drew in a rendering of the giant archway at the end of the rope and stanchion area. Finally, in the back of the drawing, he cross-hatched lightly the shape of the 20-foot Christmas tree that served as the North Pole centerpiece. Where the mall stored that monstrosity, John couldn’t imagine. They probably had a warehouse for the assorted Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, and Halloween displays. 

After an hour or so of idle sketching, he scanned his work. The best bet looked like the idea that one of the mechanical figures might be possessed…that or that one of the _employees_ was a supernatural creature masquerading as human. He could look into the history of the animatronics tomorrow. As for the employees, he could ask around on his next shift. And he decided he’d definitely try to pick up some time working the North Pole. Heck, at this rate, even if he didn’t solve the case right away, he’d be able to get Sam the giant Transformers remote controlled action figure he wanted, and Dean’s dream Gameboy, too.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John stumbled to the kitchen to set up his coffee. He walked down to their mailbox for the paper, then back upstairs and into the kitchen to assemble bowls of instant oatmeal for Dean and Sam. Since he worked starting as early as 9 AM and ending anywhere up to 11 PM, John liked to see the boys off before school. Otherwise, he’d only lay eyes on them while they slept.

Dean generally showed his face first, coming out to eat while Sam took his turn in the bathroom. Either he or John would eventually have to roust Sam out to the kitchen, since he tended to be sluggish about getting dressed. But first, Dean and John both liked to read the paper over breakfast—John for headlines and leads, Dean for sports scores, and both of them for comics. John still chuckled about the day when Dean, who couldn’t have been more than six at the time, announced to his father that reading the paper in one’s pajamas was a man’s “prerogative.”

“Did Jeff tell you that?” John guessed, noting the ten-cent word and attributing it to the last place the boys had been staying.

“Mr. Jefferson says a man ain’t a man if he can’t enjoy a paper an’ a pipe ’fore getting dressed,” Dean replied. “Dad, d’you think I’m old enough to smoke a pipe?”

“No.”

“How old do I have to be before I can?”

“Fifty,” John said immediately. “That goes double for cigarettes,” he added. “In fact, anything that people smoke.”

Dean had shrugged and told John solemnly, “That’s okay, Daddy. Uncle Bobby let me try a cigarette when I asked, an’ it was gross.”

John had gritted his teeth over that one and reminded himself that alternate parenting strategies were a hazard when one left one’s kids with friends. Well, colleagues.

Friends.

This morning, Dean pulled out the comics section to read “Garfield” and plunked himself into his chair while John poured the hot water into his oatmeal. Dean grunted his thanks and reached for one of the sugar packets, pilfered from their last meal out. He tore open the wrapper and sprinkled the contents into his oatmeal, stirring without even really looking.

“How was school yesterday?” John asked, pouring himself more coffee after setting the kettle back on the burner for Sam’s breakfast. He came and sat with Dean at the counter. It was designed as a bar, with high chairs around a peninsula that opened onto the entryway and living room. Underneath were the silverware drawer, the drawer where John stashed all the condiment packets, and the cabinet where he stored the second-hand pots and pans he’d brought in with them when they moved. The curved end could fit three chairs and had just enough flat space for them all to eat together.

“Fine.”

“Anything big today?”

“Nope.”

“Do your homework?”

“Yup.”

“Sammy have any homework?”

“A little. He did it before supper.”

“Okay.” The conversation was easy, familiar, dare he even think, routine.

“Are you working today?”

“Yeah. I’ll be late again. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Only I think we’re out of Chef Boyardee.”

“Hm.” John opened the cupboard between the sink and the fridge. “There’s Ramen.”

“It’s the shrimp kind. Sammy’ll only eat the chicken or beef flavors.”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said, “hang on.” He went down the hall. The bathroom door was still closed. He pounded on it. “Get a move on, Sam,” he called. Hearing a muffled affirmative, he moved on to his bedroom and picked up his wallet from the nightstand. 

Back in the kitchen, Dean had finished the comics and was pulling the sports section out of the paper. “Here,” John said, handing Dean a $20 note from his billfold. “I’ll try to get to the store before I go to work, but just in case I don’t, you can order a pizza.”

Dean grinned at Jackson’s etching. “Can we order pizza anyway?”

John ruffled his hair, turning it halfway through to a head bobble. “No, but I’ll tell you what: if you don’t have to, you and Sammy can split the money for your Christmas fund.”

Dean’s face expanded in all directions at once: eyes widened, eyebrows sprang upward, and his jaw dropped a fraction of an inch; a second later his muscles settled themselves into an expression of affected boredom. “Cool, thanks,” he said, trying to sound as urbane as possible.

“Hmph. Finish your oatmeal.”

Sam wandered in. He had dressed, but his hair stuck out in every direction. “It’s called a hairbrush, Sam,” John said when he regarded his son’s lack of grooming. “I know you’ve got one.”

“My hair’s too wet to brush,” Sam said defensively.

“It’s too long not to brush,” John argued. “You know the drill, dude. Keep it tidy or we get it cut.”

“I like mine short,” Dean volunteered.

John sighed. He knew Dean was trying to help, the way he used to when Sam wouldn’t eat something, or when it seemed only he could unlock the secret of what would make Sam stop crying. Still, the notion that sometimes Dean was a more effective influence on Sam than the boy’s own father grated on John. “Yes, thank you, Dean,” he said too loudly. He poured water over the oatmeal.

“Not too much!” Sam shrieked.

John pulled up on the kettle in exasperation. “Sam.” 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

John resisted the urge to point out that he’d been subject to Sam’s preferences for longer than Sam himself had been aware of them, had had to figure them out the hard way, by trial and error. He remembered that Dean, his human vacuum cleaner, had gone through a picky stage, too, cured only by patience that John frankly considered should qualify him for sainthood. And if Dean had needed John’s superhuman tolerance to push him through not eating, Sam—stubborn, bull-headed, authority-questioning Sam—would need John’s absolute indefatigable fortitude.

So instead of making a comment that would only make John sound at least as pissy as his seven-year-old, he asked, “How was school yesterday?”

“Okay,” Sam replied. He looked over at Dean. Dean met his brother’s eyes. Was it John’s imagination or did Dean shake his head ever so slightly before rolling his eyes and setting down the paper?

“Was yesterday a music day? Or an art day?” John pressed. He could never remember the kids’ schedules, was usually impressed that the boys did as well at re-learning each school’s routine as they did at keeping his profession a secret.

“Music,” Sam said, blushing. “We’re learning a dumb song.”

“Dumb?”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you mean?” John sipped his coffee and picked up the comics page. The paper here had “Sally Forth,” which had been a welcome surprise.

“The words are all gibberish,” Sam explained, stirring his oatmeal and tasting an experimental spoonful. “Do we have any more sugar?”

Dean opened the drawer and tossed Sam more packets, keeping another for himself and dumping it on top of his congealing oatmeal.

“Are they in another language?” John asked.

“Oh.” Sam sat back in his chair as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe. Not Latin, though. I’d know if it was Latin.”

“Yeah, I guess you would,” John agreed. He’d been proud and a little shocked when Sam had first shown him that he could read by pulling out Jim’s big Latin psalter and reciting “ _Dominus pascit me_ ” in a high-pitched but steady rhythm. “Do you remember any of the words? Maybe I can tell you if they mean anything.” _Big maybe_ , he thought, but he remembered a smattering of high school German and French. And how hard could a song be if it was being taught to second-graders? 

Dean spooned his oatmeal, watching Sam closely. Sam swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal that otherwise could be used as Spackle and gave it a shot.

“Well, the main part goes, ‘Oat, On, and Balm.’ They say that a lot.”

“Oat, On…. O Tannenbaum?”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, Sam: O _Tannenbaum_ ,” John repeated. “It’s German. It means Christmas tree.”

Dean and Sam both looked at him with renewed awe. John glanced back and forth between them. “What?”

Sam recovered first. “I didn’t know you could speak German, Dad,” he said slowly.

“Don’t really, but I took a little of it in school. Anyway, it’s a Christmas carol. If you think about it, I’m sure you’ve heard it before.” 

Dean scraped his bowl with his spoon for the last mouthful. “Must be old fogey music,” he said dryly. 

Sam snorted. So did John, covering it up by sipping the coffee. “Rinse your bowl; I’ll wash up before work.”

As Dean got up and crossed to the sink, John noticed Dean’s pajama cuffs. “Dean? Are your PJ’s up above your ankles?”

Dean looked down. The pajama cuffs hugged the base of his calf. “I guess,” he said cautiously.

“Are they hiked up?” John probed.

Dean swiped his left pajama leg with his right foot. The cuff descended about a quarter inch. “Um, no?” 

John scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, did they shrink in the wash? Or are you really growing that fast?”

Dean bit his lip, thinking. He pulled at the front of his pants, then looked up. “I don’t think I shrank them. Sam?”

“We did laundry on Sunday,” Sam recited through his last spoonful of gluey oatmeal. “One load of whites and one load of other stuff. We did the other stuff on cold.”

“Shouldn’t have shrunk then,” John mused. “Damn. Well, okay, I guess I know what’s going under the tree for you.”

Sam came to Dean’s defense quickly. “Clothes don’t count!”

John crossed his arms. “Clothes count, Sammy. They just never count as the only present.”

“Or the main present,” Sam stipulated. 

“Or the main present,” John affirmed. This was what Sammy had taken to calling the one gift John always gave each boy “from Santa,” which he took care to make something, if not specifically on their list, at least more frivolous than the other presents. Some years, Santa was more frivolous than others, but he never brought them socks or even books; the “boring” presents landed squarely in John’s domain.

“Dad, they’re fine,” Dean said. “They fit, they’re just short. So what?”

John sighed with tight lips. “Okay. But if they blow out, don’t be a martyr about it, dude. They’re just PJs, it’s not going to break the bank.”

“Yessir.”

“You better get dressed or you’ll be late.”

Dean hurried off to comply. “What about you, anything exciting on tap today?” John asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Dean said you did your homework. Want me to check it for you?”

“No. It’s right.”

“What was it?”

“Addition. A couple fractions. Easy. And I had to copy out a spelling list, but I did that at school.”

“That’s it? No term papers? No book report on _War and Peace_?”

“Dad, I’m in second grade,” Sam said, his tone somewhere between haughty and indignant. “They don’t make you do stuff like that until at least fifth.”

“Oh, okay,” John gave in with an assessing frown. “How about any art projects? No volcanoes or cardboard dioramas?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m _sorry_ I forgot to tell you about the volcano model that one time. I won’t do it again, okay?”

“Relax, Sammy,” John said, putting a hand on his boy’s shoulder. Dean tended to give John’s teasing right back to him, but he always forgot how it agitated Sam. Somehow John’s brand of humor was lost on the kid. “I’m just checking in on you. I’m allowed, you know, I am your dad.”

Sam scuffed his foot against the floor. “Yeah, I know, sir. M’sorry.”

“It’s okay, sport. But you know, holidays are around the corner. Seems to me they’re gonna ask for some kind of project before the break.” He scrubbed his chin with his fingers. “You gotta let me know if we need to prepare anything ahead of time, right?”

Sam’s eyes bugged out and his face grew red. “I said I know,” he said defensively.

“Hey, this is important stuff, dude,” John said as gently as he could, even though he could feel his gorge rising. “I’m not saying this to get on your case, Sam. I just don’t want you to get caught flat-footed again. So anything going on, stuff to bring for class, or whatever, you tell me. Got that?”

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek and nodded.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, meeting John’s chin with his eyes.

“Okay,” John said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “Go brush your hair and get your books.” He sent the boy off with a light swat toward his butt.

Dean returned, now dressed for school. “There’s one thing I’m wondering,” he said, leaning against the kitchen wall, where it joined the hallway.

“What’s that?”

“Are we actually getting a tree?” 

John rolled his eyes. “We’ll make it a Charlie Brown Christmas, kiddo. Find a sincere shrub and we’ll talk.”

Dean laughed.

John picked up Sam’s bowl and put it in the sink, added a little water. “Sam! Move it, mister.”

Sam trotted to the living room with his bookbag and the pair of snow pants that John had bought along with the down coats for both boys. Sam sat on the couch to pull the pants on over his jeans. Dean looked down at him. “Gotta go before you put all that on?”

“No.”

“I’m just saying. You put on the snow pants and next thing you know….”

“Screw off, Dean.” He crossed to the coat hooks by the apartment door and pulled down his jacket.

Dean cackled. “Look, Dad, Sammy’s trying to swear. ‘Screw off,’ how cute.” Dean reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair, and Sam got his hand up to block just in time, followed through with the counterpunch. Dean caught his arm and twisted it. Sam walked into the twist, resulting in the two of them rotating on the axis of Sam’s wrist for half a turn.

“Training later. School now, boys.” 

They dropped their hands. Dean reached for his scarf while John crouched in front of Sam to zip his down jacket. Sam sighed. “ _Now_ I gotta go,” he revealed glumly.

~*~

Snow had blanketed the ground outside. Little hillocks ran along the sides of the walkways where the plow had been. It left a scraped layer, grooved with the treads of the blade. Sam turned around, walking backward.

“Quit it,” Dean ordered.

“I’m making my tracks go backward, Dean,” Sam explained.

“You’re slowing us down, and we’re already late because of your extra pee break.”

Sam ran to catch up. He gripped the hood of his coat awkwardly with his mittens. “Do you sometimes think Dad’s psychic?”

Dean frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Well…it was like he knew about the pageant.”

“Sam, everyone has concerts and plays and stuff around this time of year. Dad doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. Anyway, you almost gave it away.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did. Hold my hand,” Dean added before they crossed the busy intersection at Vermont and Elm. The light changed and they hurried to the other side. “You told him about the song. Think about it, Sammy. Why would you be learning a song if you aren’t in some kind of concert or a pageant or something, huh?”

Sam blanched, despite the cold making his cheeks glow. “He asked about music. I thought he’d think it was for music class.”

“Yeah. Well, you’re lucky. But that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. You raised his suspicions.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

“You mean if he finds out? Maybe. So he’s not gonna, right?”

“Right.” 

Dean let go of Sam’s hand well before they rounded the corner and came within sight of Jerome’s front yard. There was always a crossing guard on duty here, which Dean found typically jacked up, because apart from parents dropping off their kids in their cars, there really wasn’t any traffic on this corner. But Elm was a main drag and only a block away, yet there was never a crossing guard stationed there where it would have been useful. It was what Dad would have called SNAFU.

The only good thing about it was that Dean didn’t have to be seen in public holding his brother’s hand.

“It’s s’posed to snow again tonight,” Dean told Sam before letting him run into the building. “Wait inside the doors, but watch for me so you can come out as soon as I get here. I’m not standing around in the cold again. Got that, shrimp?”

“Okay, Dean, jeez, stop acting like such a jerk.”

“M’just saying. Not like you’re gonna be busy singing.” Dean smirked. His nose was running again from the cold. “See you later, geek-boy.”

He kept walking, hearing Sam call, “Bye, Dean!” but not waiting for it. He swiped his nose with his knit cuff.

Dean increased his pace, aware that he was running late. He was sweating by the time he reached South, but he made it ahead of the first bell. 

“You may remember, class, that today is the day we’re drawing for our secret holiday gift exchange,” Mrs. Fontana said after the morning announcements. “We’ll exchange gifts on the last day of term—that’s Friday, the 21st. Now, I know that not everyone can participate in the exchange—yes, Chenaya, I know—but I’ve put the names of those who can into this.” She held up an opaque cookie jar in the shape of a penguin. “Please form a line on the left side of the classroom, draw a name from the jar, and if it isn’t your own, resume your seat. Yes, Dean?”

“I can’t, ma’am,” Dean said quickly, putting his hand back down. He didn’t want to squander his Christmas fund on a stranger. He figured if the lie had worked for Sam, it would do for him as well. 

Mrs. Fontana regarded him suspiciously over the rims of her reading glasses. They were small and rectangular and looked like they’d come from another century. “Please approach, Dean,” she said. Dean had already learned this was her way of calling him up for a private conversation, like a judge asking for a sidebar. Several of the kids tittered or whispered as he walked to the desk.

“There’s nothing in your records about a legitimate reason not to participate in school holiday festivities, Dean,” she said softly.

“I’m not surprised,” Dean replied, ready for the objection. “It’s happened before. Sometimes the records don’t all arrive, um, intact.”

Mrs. Fontana looked like she didn’t believe him. “I don’t have time to go digging through the slips for your name now. Kindly draw a name anyway, for the time being, and then you and I can work out what to do during your study hall.” She raised her voice to address the class. “Everyone, get in line, please.”

Dean stayed in front of the desk while everyone snapped to Mrs. Fontana’s directions. She lifted an eyebrow, her gaze clearly telling Dean not to challenge her authority in front of the others. Dean held her eyes just long enough to make it clear, in return, that he was capitulating not because he feared her, but because he chose to comply. He was doing her a favor, not the other way around. When he was sure she got the message, but before she could accuse him of insubordination, Dean spun on his heel and marched over to join the line.

Dad said ninety percent of any confrontation was won by establishing one’s dominance right off the bat.

He brought his slip of paper back to Mrs. Fontana during Study Hall. “Thank you,” Mrs. Fontana said crisply. “But you have yet to explain to my satisfaction why you ought to be excluded from the exercise.”

“Huh? Oh. You mean you want to know why I want out?”

“Are you in some doubt as to what I said, Dean?”

Either Mrs. Fontana was more annoyed than Dean had figured, or she delighted in being as pompous as possible. Maybe both. “No, ma’am. We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” he supplied quickly.

“Your records include nothing to indicate that.”

“I know. Like I said, sometimes they don’t catch everything.”

“I highly doubt that they made an omission, Dean.” Mrs. Fontana pulled out a manila file and tapped it with one manicured nail. Dean could see a neatly printed label on the tab: “Winchester, D.” it read, with a sequence of numbers underneath it. “These are the records from your previous school. They include your transcripts, the number of days you were absent, the number of times you were seen by the principal, your school photograph, and even selected physical characteristics, such as your lack of known allergies and the date of your most recent tetanus shot.” She pursed her lips, giving her whole face a pinched look that accentuated her wrinkles. “So the fact that they could successfully transfer all this information, and yet somehow neglect to mention a religious affiliation that would affect your participation in school-sponsored solemnities is something I find highly suspicious. In fact, if I didn’t know better I might arrive at the conclusion that you are deliberately misrepresenting your family’s spiritual status in an effort to abstain from proceedings you find personally distasteful.” She paused to let that sink in—or at least, to give Dean a chance to figure out what she meant behind all the fancy words.

“You’re calling me a liar,” Dean complained.

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Fontana said primly. “I’m merely offering you an opportunity to reconsider your allegation.”

Dean squinted at her.

“To change your story, Dean,” she clarified. Her eyes were sharp and bead-like over the rims of her glasses.

“Oh. Well…maybe my family aren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Dean said. At her look of satisfaction, he continued quickly, “But I am.”

“Really? You willingly want to forego presents, decorations, candy in your stocking? You would rather attend church than wake up on Christmas morning to a wrapped box under your tree?”

“We don’t have a tree,” Dean pointed out, glad that he was absolutely telling the truth.

Mrs. Fontana wasn’t impressed. “Dean. Are you honestly telling me that you harbor a religious conviction that prohibits you from observing Christmas?”

Dean captured his lips between his teeth, jaw shifting to one side. If he ducked the Secret Santa, he could also duck other things, like whatever holiday assemblies or other stuff they had planned. But…he’d also miss out on the fun stuff. He wouldn’t have to waste money on someone’s present…but he wouldn’t _get_ a present, either. 

On the other hand, if he changed his story now, Mrs. Fontana would know he’d been lying. And she’d win.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Dean said carefully. “Christmas really doesn’t mean a whole lot to our family.”

“There’s more to religion than liking or not liking a single holiday, Dean,” Mrs. Fontana said softly. For once, her customary pretension was absent. She spoke like a real person.

“I never said I didn’t like it, Mrs. Fontana,” Dean pointed out politely. “It’s just not much different for us. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t do anything different either, so….”

“So you thought you’d trick me into letting you sit out on the festivities?”

She was so frank about it that the comment actually stung Dean a little. “It wasn’t a trick,” he lied. “Honest. I just…I was trying it. Being one, I mean.”

Mrs. Fontana took off her glasses. Without them, she looked younger, softer. Her eyes were bright blue, Dean noticed. She tapped his records again. “I’m not sure what conditions were in your previous school…or previous _schools_ , I should say…but I think you’re used to being able to tell your teachers stories. And because they’re plausible stories and because you’re an affable young man, no doubt, they believe you. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have anything to say about religion, or the lack thereof, in one of my students. So I’m not going to discuss with you the intricacies of any religious conversion, except to caution you not to take such a decision lightly. Your religious beliefs are your own business, Dean, but they’re also an intensely personal decision, and they should be meaningful. Not based on whether or not you have enough money for a Secret Santa present. Hm?”

Dean had been scowling when she started lecturing him again, but as he looked up to answer, he saw something on her face that was so out of place, Dean wondered how it had come to rest there: She was smiling. Not a condescending smile, nor an indulgent one, but a straightforward, genuine smile. Seeing it surprised Dean enough to return the gesture. Unfortunately, she took this for confirmation. 

“If you’re worried about spending your Christmas budget on this gift, there are things you can do that don’t cost anything. You’re bright, Dean. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Mrs. Fontana put her glasses back on and the approachable, kind version of Mrs. Fontana disappeared behind the frames. “I suggest you take a look at your recipient’s name, Mr. Winchester, back at your desk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean sulked through the rest of the morning. It wasn’t fair that Mrs. Fontana was forcing him to give a present to someone in class. He hadn’t looked at his slip of paper, more out of defiance than anything else. He couldn’t even do anything about it, because…well, because she had called his bluff. The last teacher who hadn’t believed him had been Ms. Wexler, his second third grade teacher (after Mrs. Durang, before Mrs. Holland). But Ms. Wexler had also been challenging in a good way. She was funny and she made him think, and when he answered her questions, she had really listened to what he had to say. Mrs. Fontana was just…annoying. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she had pulled off her glasses and made nice as a trick of her own. And that was so not fair. Teachers were supposed to be trustworthy. The whole thing made his stomach turn a little and gave him a headache.

When he opened his lunch bag, his stomach protested at the mere thought of bologna and cheese. He managed to trade it for peanut butter. He choked down half the sandwich, but the peanut butter made his throat hurt, and didn’t feel too good landing, either, so he set the rest aside in case he got hungry later.

Mr. Jasper and Ms. DeLuca made them all bundle up for recess. By the time they all had their boots, coats, scarves, and hats on, they only had half the time left. Dean wandered out onto the snow-covered playing field, in no mood to play. 

With all his snow gear on, Dean’s peripheral vision wasn’t the greatest. The first inkling he had that anyone was plotting against him was the smack of a snowball against his ear. Dean whirled around toward the source. Mike Stakowski waved at him merrily. 

Dean responded quickly. The nearby jungle gym provided good cover, but less snow within easy reach meant less ammo. Dean opted instead for the see-saw base. He ducked behind it just as Mike lobbed a second snowball. 

“Hey, Dean!” Jill Hingenberg called out, skidding to her knees in the snow next to him. “I can help you stockpile.” She started scooping up snow and rounding it into missiles before he could answer.

Mike soon had a partner, too, and within five minutes they each had a couple more reinforcements. Over on “Dean’s team,” Jill turned out snowballs at a prodigious rate, Kevin Lansing’s aim was almost as good as Dean’s, and Nate Durang threw his snowballs as fast as he could make them. Mike’s team, based off the sandbox area, consisted of Natalie Griffin, Rebecca Rosenburg, and Jason Cartwright. Natalie’s speed wasn’t as high as Mike’s, but her aim was deadly. Dean popped his head up to check range at one point and Natalie had been waiting. The snowball hit him smack in the face before he had a chance to duck away.

“Whoa!” Kevin laughed while Dean spit snow out of his mouth. 

“Right, gonna be that way about it?” Dean muttered. He picked up two snowballs and broke cover. He swerved in a running crouch for the closer vantage point of the swingset, using the thick A-frame poles for protection. Natalie leaned out from her corner of the sandbox to aim. Dean lobbed one of the snowballs toward her and immediately ran forward again, low to the ground the way Dad had taught him. 

“He’s going in!” Dean heard Nate yell. He hooked around to the side of the sandbox. At point blank range, he threw the snowball at Mike, then scooped more snow into his arms and tossed it toward the little army without bothering to mold it first. The effect was not unlike splashing in a pool.

Rebecca shrieked in excited fear, Natalie tried making a snowball but was overwhelmed by snow, and Jason tackled Dean to the snow. Seconds later, the rest of Dean’s squadron arrived, abandoning their base to back him up. Jill alone stayed behind to offer covering fire. She threw a snowball and made two more while the others reinforced Dean.

Dean wrapped his leg around Jason and flipped the other boy into the snow. He scrambled away, but in the snow, he couldn’t get any leverage. Mike caught his ankle and tried to pull his leg out from under him. Dean twisted, but the snow shifted underneath him and he fell despite his effort to shake Mike off. As soon as he hit the spongy ground, he rolled away.

A shrill whistle disrupted them from any further horseplay. Ms. DeLuca was waving at them to come in. Dean climbed to his feet and offered a hand to Mike. 

Mike’s eyes widened at something behind Dean. Before Dean could decide whether Mike was bluffing, he felt severe cold on his neck. It was wet and so cold it almost burned. Dean gasped and whirled around. Jason was cackling like a maniac, brushing snow off his gloves.

“Sorry!” Jason choked out between bouts of laughter. “Couldn’t resist!”

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean said, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I probably woulda done the same thing.”

The whistle blew again. Mr. Jasper started walking toward them. “Come on, we better go in,” Natalie said, tugging on Nate’s arm. 

“That was awesome! Dude, where’d you learn all that stuff—d’you take karate?” Mike asked Dean as they headed inside.

“My dad was a Marine,” Dean said proudly. The snow down his back was melting slowly, but not slowly enough. Dean pulled his jacket away from his back and dug with wet gloves for the tail of his shirt. 

“Cool,” Mike said, his eyes widening in admiration. He grinned. “Jason really got you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Here,” Mike pulled off his gloves to help. They got the snow out, but not before Dean’s shirt had been pretty well wet down.

Later that afternoon, Mike sat next to Dean in Social Studies. It was kinda cool to hang out with someone else his own age. Jill and Natalie also volunteered to join Mike and Dean in a group discussion in class, and instead of talking about Civic Responsibility, they relived the battle. 

The back of Dean’s shirt was still damp. Though the classroom was warm, his back felt cold. He shivered through Jill’s improvised answers to Mr. Burleigh’s questions about the benefits of energy conservation. 

“How about you, Dean?” Mr. Burleigh asked.

“Huh?”

“Do you agree with Jill about fossil fuels?”

Dean sneezed.

“We’ll take that as a comment on the weather and not Jill’s position,” Mr. Burleigh said to the amusement of the class. “What other forms of energy do we use all the time?”

Dean stammered an answer. In his next class, he sat as close to the heat register as he could get.

At last the end of the day arrived. Dean’s coat hadn’t dried completely, but he put it on stoically. He found the driest part of his scarf to wind around his neck. Mike found him just as he was shaking out his hat.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You look at your Secret Santa thing?”

“Nope,” Dean confided.

“Heh, yeah.” Mike pulled his coat on. “You walk, don’t you?”

“Yup.” Dean wasn’t sure where Mike was going. But more than that; he wasn’t sure how to talk to Mike about much other than snowball fighting tactics. He certainly wasn’t interested in revealing family secrets to a relative stranger. 

Mike sensed his reluctance. “’R you mad?”

“No,” Dean said quickly. ‘Just…I gotta pick up my kid brother on the way home. An’ I don’t feel good.” As the words slipped out, Dean realized they were true. He didn’t feel good. He was still shivering inside his coat and his head and stomach still felt a little achy. They had Tylenol at home; he decided he’d take some when they got there.

“Oh. Sorry. See you tomorrow?” Mike asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He gave Mike a weak smile. “See ya.”

He walked briskly down Elm and Division, and was sweating by the time he reached Sam’s school. Sammy was waiting just inside the door. He had put his snow pants on over his jeans, but his coat was draped over a bench near the entrance. Dean came inside and pushed past Sam, bending over the drinking fountain. “Get your jacket on,” Dean said, swiping at his forehead, which was beaded with sweat.

Sam pulled his coat on and laboriously struggled with the zipper. Dean wanted nothing more than to open his own zips, but he hoped he could get Sam ready and get back outside before he overheated. He pulled Sam’s hood up and tugged on his brother’s idiot mittens.

“Ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. Come on,” Dean said brusquely. He grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged him along behind him.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam asked as they left the building.

“Nothin’, I just wanna get home,” Dean muttered.

“Do we get to order pizza?” Sam asked.

“I dunno yet,” Dean snapped.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine!”

Sam stopped in his tracks, slipping his hand out of Dean’s. Dean took three additional steps before he realized Sam had halted. He turned.

“You don’t sound fine,” Sam observed. “You’re mad.”

“I’m tired, Sammy. Come on.”

“It hasn’t started snowing,” Sam pointed out. “You said it was gonna snow.”

“I said it was s’posed to, that’s not the same thing.”

They made it home, but not before Dean’s throat had begun to tickle and burn a little. Dean told Sam to do his homework in front of the TV. He stripped off and changed into his PJs, digging out a warm pair of rag wool socks, and pulled on sweats as a makeshift bathrobe. He sat on the sofa with Sam for a while, trying to do his homework. 

“Tylenol!” he said to himself, and shuffled to the bathroom for the pills. He was used to getting painkillers for Dad, but usually when he had a pain or something, his father gave him one pill, so he opened the bottle and shook out a single capsule. He swallowed it down with a little tap water. When he came back, Sam said, “I’m hungry.” Sighing, he checked the cupboard: Dad had stocked the shelves with chicken flavor Ramen, more canned ravioli, and even regular pasta and sauce. 

“Ramen or ravioli, Sam?” Dean called from the kitchen.

“Is it chicken Ramen?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay….” Dean pulled out two packages and poured water for a double batch. The tickle in the back of his throat had turned to an ache. He was still shivering in his layers. While the water was boiling, he crept into his father’s room and found an oversized flannel shirt, which he added to his sweats. 

He went back to the kitchen just as the water started bubbling. He tipped in the noodles and stirred them, then sat at the counter until the noodles were done. He tore open the bullion packets and stirred again. 

“Sammy, come eat.”

Dean gave Sam all the noodles and just enough broth to cover them. He kept the rest of the broth for himself. It was salty and hot, and made the back of his throat feel numb going down.

It took him a few minutes after drinking the broth to feel like he could move again. He was so tired, and while his throat had benefited from the steam and the salt, his tummy didn’t seem to appreciate it when it hit bottom. He told himself he just needed to lie down. He put his bowl in the sink. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” he told Sam.

“What about you?”

“M’goin’a bed.” Dean burped; his stomach lurched and he hurried to the bathroom. Sam jumped out of his seat and followed him.

“R’you sick?” he asked unnecessarily. Dean lunged for the toilet, making it just in time. Sammy hovered over him, unsure what to do. Eventually Sam dragged the step-stool over to the sink and poured a glass of water. 

Sam held out the cup. “D’you want this?”

“Guh…No.” Dean leaned against the wall. He was so tired and his mouth tasted metallic, like acid. He fumbled for the lever and flushed the toilet. “Sam, look in the med kit. See if we still have that bottle of grape stuff.”

“From when I was sick last year?”

“Yeah.”

Sam dug under the sink for the bag of their extensive medical supplies. He pushed aside Ace bandages, hoarded Darvocet and assorted heavy-duty painkillers, and even a few bags of saline and ringers pilfered from an incident two years ago when Dad had stayed overnight in an Emergency Room. Dean braced himself for Sam to ask about that, what had been wrong and why Dad had been so injured, but he must have seen that Dean was in no shape to answer, because Sam merely pushed past them and dug deeper in the bag. In the far corner, he found a plastic bottle of children’s cold medicine. The plastic dispenser cup had cracked, but the bottle was still half full. “Here!” He held it up triumphantly.

“Great. Hand it over,” Dean instructed weakly. 

“The cup’s broke,” Sam said.

“Don’t care.” Dean twisted the childproof cap, but the syrupy liquid had dried inside and made the seal sticky. “Shit.”

“Here,” Sammy held out his hand. He didn’t even point out that Dean wasn’t supposed to swear. Dean surrendered the bottle. Sam pressed down and applied pressure. The cap twisted free. He handed the bottle back and Dean swigged directly from it. 

“Blech,” he said.

“R’you gonna be okay?” Sam asked tentatively. He took the bottle and put it down on the sink, next to the toothpaste.

“Yeah. Just need to get some sleep, I think.”

“R’you gonna yark again?”

“Dunno. Hope not.”

“Need help?”

“Nah,” Dean said. He forced himself to his feet and stumbled across the hall to their room, collapsing onto the mattress.

Sam pulled one of the blankets over his big brother. “Want me to bring a bucket over?” he asked.

Dean groaned. Sam brought a garbage pail. 

“It’s right here, okay?”

Dean muttered something that might have been “Thanks.” Sam stood by the bed, biting his lip. Dean could hear him breathing, trying to be quiet.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean, I’m here. Whaddaya need?”

“Go ’way.”

“You sure?”

“Lemme sleep, Sammy.”

Sam shuffled his feet. “Oh. Okay.” He moved around the room. “I’m just gonna change into my PJ’s now, okay? So I don’t bug you later.”

“Good plan. Hey.”

“What?”

“Go to bed in Dad’s room. I don’t want you getting this.”

“M’not s’posed to go in Dad’s room. His stuff’s in there and so’s the fire escape. Someone could get in that way.” Sam recited this like a litany, and Dean couldn’t decide whether his brother was just being deliberately difficult or genuinely thought he was being tested.

“I know. S’okay this one time.”

“Oh. Sure you don’t want anything else?”

“Just turn off the light, Sammy.”

“Sorry.”

Dean grunted appreciatively. He settled the blanket around himself and felt little hands tucking the ends around him. “Sammy…get out.”

“Just tryna help,” Sam said. His voice quavered as he spoke.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. “Sammy, m’gonna be fine, okay? Just need to sleep.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” Small feet padded away from the mattress and the light clicked out.

~*~

John went to the store shortly after seeing the boys off, put away the groceries, then grabbed his costume in its garment bag and headed to the mall to poke around before his store shift. He dropped off his suit in the locker room so he wouldn’t have to carry it around with him. He found the manager in charge of hiring for Santa’s Workshop, a balding pencil-pusher in his fifties whose name was Lyle Olohan, and asked about whether they’d found a replacement for the injured Santa yet.

“You’re not one of mine,” Lyle said.

John explained that he’d been working at the Macy’s, but that he could use the extra work. “Two kids with pretty big Christmas lists,” he said. “I can’t get overtime there.”

The manager lit up a cigarette and puffed before answering. “Okay. So happens I haven’t found anyone to replace Del. Can you cover this Saturday, 10-6?”

John pulled out his journal and flipped to the page where he’d noted down his store shifts. “Yes.” He’d hoped to take the boys to the firing range, but the job came first.

“You’re hired.”

“Thanks.” They spent a few minutes filling out basic paperwork. John stood as if to leave, turned back in a classic “Columbo” maneuver. “Is the guy…Del? Is he going to be okay?”

Lyle sighed. “He’s in pretty bad shape. But he’s supposed to check out from St. Mary’s tomorrow.”

“I heard he said a bunch of the ornaments came flying at him. Is…I mean, does he drink?”

“Del?” Lyle frowned. “Not’s I know of. Truth is, we’ve had a run of bad luck this season.”

John played dumb. “What kind of bad luck?”

“Pranks, I think, mostly. But some weird coincidences. Mothers tripping on our wiring, even after I know it’s been taped down. Maintenance moving the trash cans into our stanchion lines. One woman wants us to pay for her fur cleaning bill—says it’s our fault someone bumped into her and spilled hot coffee on her mink.”

“Why you, huh?” John commiserated. 

“Tell me about it. If I were a superstitious man, I’d say we’ve been cursed.”

“So,” John said, grinning conspiratorially, “the pay for this gig. It’s cash, right?”

The manager laughed. “I like you, Winchester. Good to have a sense of humor for this job. Tell ya, the main reason I have to let people go isn’t the drinking. It’s that they lose their cool around the kids.”

John smiled. “Like I said, got two of my own. They try a man’s patience, but they’re good kids.”

“Not all ours are. And the mothers! Jesus God, I think the kids wouldn’t behave half so badly if it weren’t for the mothers. Ask me, most of’em deserve to be tripped, or whatever.”

“You said you think it’s pranksters? Not anyone who works for you, though?”

“Cold feet?” Lyle lit another cigarette. He offered the pack to John, who refused politely. “I been doin’ this for almost twenty years. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiring people who can take the pressure. I know the difference between an employee blowing off steam and someone who’s out for mischief. The stuff going on here, this year? It’s mischief.”

“Anything like this happen before?”

“Five or six years ago, there was a rash of pranks, but nothing like this. Harmless stuff—mustaches painted on the skating girls, graffiti on the signs, even an inflatable sex doll stuffed into the Workshop window. Turned out it was one of the college fraternities—they’d bribed the guard to refocus the security cameras while they were up to their tricks. No evidence of that, this time, though. Nothing shows up on the security tapes at all. I dunno. Whoever’s behind this stuff has a beef of some kind, I think. I’ve tried to tell the sheriff, but he thinks it’s another bunch of teenagers.”

“Well, if I see anything suspicious, I’ll be sure to point it out.”

“Thanks.”

They chatted for a while longer until John could bring the conversation around to the decorations, specifically the animatronic skaters. 

“We’ve had those decorations for probably fifteen years. Bought ’em from a mall that was closing—they got killed during the oil crisis—and they’re kinda dated, but they work. I been asking the mall management for an update and they keep telling me ‘next year, maybe.’” He shook his head. “Somehow when budget season rolls around, in June, no one’s thinking about Christmas.”

“I hear ya,” John said, and found himself talking about an age-old argument he and Mike could never settle, about just when they were going to add a collision bay to the garage. John had figured the money to be made in a limited collision enterprise would justify the expense and one or two extra mechanics. Mike wasn’t interested in diversifying. It seemed like another lifetime now, but the anecdote forged a connection, convinced Lyle that John was just a regular guy who’d fallen on some hard times. _Nothing to see here,_ John thought, _move along._ Or as Dean and Sam might have put it, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”

~*~

John left the office with enough time to take a stroll past the area before reporting for his shift. His conversation with the manager had effectively put the kibosh on his theory about the animatronic decorations. For one thing, they’d had the decorations for years, and never had an incident before; for another, the only “history” of accidents had turned out to be mundane vandals. But Santa’s Workshop was unmistakably the locus for the paranormal activity, so the only thing to do was go back to the drawing board: time for Surveillance and Recon.

He picked up a cup of coffee at the Food Court and wandered in search of a good vantage point. Right across from the open area where the village sat under skylights, there was a low wall that enclosed one of the running fountains. Finding an open section of wall, John seated himself and pulled out his journal. He looked over his sketch, adding to it and noting behavior of interest as he watched the line progress.

In the little department store outfit, Santa more or less remained in the children’s section. There was only one photographer on at any time, and there were only three or four elves to work the diminutive crowds. The operation was rinky-dink compared to the central village. On peak hours here, as many as ten elves—in this case, they ranged from teenaged young men to coeds from Valley State, and even a few “Mrs. Claus” candidates—monitored the lines and kept the kids entertained while waiting for the main event. Three photographers and their assistants took turns snapping pictures and taking orders for prints to send out along with Christmas cards and thank-you notes. It seemed to John more like an enterprising conglomerate than a small-time treat for kids.

Lyle Olohan had been certain the pranks weren’t being caused by one of his employees. But, as John watched, he saw a number of people who might be able to shed light on the situation, even if they weren’t part of the occurrences themselves. He made some notes. 

After two hours and at least three mothers wanting to know why he was watching the children so intently, it was just about time for John’s paying gig. He stood up and turned to throw away his coffee cup…and heard someone scream.

John whipped back around to see that a mother had coiled her leg in the rope and tripped over one of the stanchion posts. The heavy pole had hit her leg and pinned it. A crowd started to gather around her. John pushed his way in.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

“It hurts…God…I think I broke something.”

“Someone call 911,” John barked. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“I was…ow…I was waiting for Timmy to get his picture…. Timmy? Where’s Timmy?” An elf appeared with a little boy about Sammy’s age.

“What happened to her?” Timmy asked. He grabbed John’s sleeve. “Is she okay? Mom?”

“She’ll be all right, just… Could you all give us some room?” John looked up at the elf who had brought the kid. “Why don’t you get Timmy here another candy cane?” John suggested. The elf, a rather pretty, young brunette, nodded with wide eyes and brightly invited Timmy to go with her back to the sleigh, where they handed out the tiny candy canes as a reward for being good while in line.

John carefully lifted the pole from the woman’s ankle. Someone produced a coat to use as a pillow and he laid her foot down gently onto it. From the way the bones crunched and she moaned, she’d definitely broken a few bones. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little.”

“It’s shock. Hey, you,” he pointed to another elf standing over them, “go get another coat or a blanket or something. And you,” he continued to another woman who had been standing next to the victim, “see if there’s anything in the sleigh we can use as a pillow. We’ll make you a little more comfortable until the paramedics get here,” he said to the hapless woman.

“How on earth did you get tangled in the ropes like that?” he asked kindly.

“I really don’t know,” she told him. “I was…waiting…and I rummaged through my purse for a cigarette…I must have taken a step or something, and not seen the rope, because the next thing I knew, I was falling.”

“Huh. Had you…spoken to any of the staff here before it happened?”

“No. Well, yes. I had ordered our prints. But that’s all. Where’s Timmy?”

John looked around and made a mental note of the three people working the photography ordering stations. He’d interview them later. He caught sight of the brunette and the teary-eyed kid, slurping on a candy cane near the rope line exit. “Timmy’s fine. He’s with one of the girls. They’ll keep him distracted.” John looked up at one of the elves. “Where are the medics?”

“Cindy called them; they’re on their way.”

John looked at his watch. His shift started in five minutes, and he still had to change. He smiled at Timmy’s mother. “Listen, I have to go,” he told both her and the elf standing nearby. “Keep her warm, keep the foot immobile and elevated, and don’t give her anything for the pain yet. Let the medics do that.” To the woman, he said, “I’d like to be able to check on you later, make sure you got fixed up okay. Do you mind if I write down your name and a number where I can get in touch?”

He pulled out his journal and wrote down the information she gave him. “Thanks, Jane. I’ll call tomorrow and see how you’re doing. Is that all right?”

“It’ll make an interesting conversation with my husband, but yes. Thank you.”

John got to his feet and dashed across the mall to the Macy’s. He let himself back into the store locker room, changed, and relieved the haggard Santa (a 60-something guy by the name of Glenn). It was just his luck, first that the incident had occurred the moment he’d looked away, and second that it happened just when he couldn’t stay around to look into it. But he had a few people to follow-up on, and he’d call the woman back to press her for more details after she got fixed up. At least her injury wasn’t fatal. Hard as it was, he had to move thoughts of the investigation to the back burner for the next few hours. 

As a progression of tots was brought to him, he listened to their requests. Half the time, he wished he’d been able to do this kind of thing for the boys, in their school or even the community center Mary had wanted them to join. The rest of the time he was glad he’d concealed the details of this job from them. He could think of no quicker way to disillusion Sam about the mysteries of Christmas than to reveal that his old man was masquerading as Santa for money; Dean would never let him live down the indignity. John could just imagine the ways in which his boy would find the opportunity to subtly needle him about it for the rest of their natural lives. Whether or not Dean still believed in Santa, he would never characterize their current source of income as “cool.”

If nothing else, the kids’ wish lists convinced John that he wasn’t doing such a horrible job as a father. The gift on the top of Sam’s list was one of the most requested toys that season. John figured he’d better get the store to hold one for him if he wanted to be able to lay his hands on it. It was good to know that, despite everything, the boys were still normal enough to want what the other kids wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

John drove through snow flurries back to the apartment, exhausted, and let himself in quietly. The lights were off, but the TV was on. By its flickering light, he could see Sammy fast asleep on the sofa, one arm hanging off the cushion and almost touching the floor. John tiptoed to his room and changed out of his Santa suit, then came back out to the living room. “Hey, Sammy,” he said softly. “What are you doing out here so late? Where’s Dean?” He picked Sam up—Sam reflexively wrapped his arms and legs around John’s neck and torso—and carried him down the short hallway. 

Sammy muttered and moaned sleepily. It started with “Dean” and John just barely caught something that sounded like “your room” as he opened the door to the boys’ room.

In the hall light, John took one look at Dean’s sweat-sheened skin, the way he had tossed the covers aside, and the way his breathing seemed shallow and labored, and he thought he had a good idea of why Sam had been left on his own that evening. Sammy muttered into John’s neck again, and this time he heard, “Dean’s sick,” distinctly among a bunch of other mumbled incoherences. John backed out of the doorway and put Sam to bed in his own room. He carefully hid the suit in its black bag and hung the bag on the back of the door before going to check on Dean. 

Dean was asleep, but feverish. John pulled the covers back over him. His skin was clammy and his cheeks were flushed bright red. A garbage pail was placed near his head, but it didn’t look (or smell) like he’d had to use it. John sat down on the other side of the mattress, between Dean and the window.

“Use Dad’s bed, Sammy,” Dean groaned, flipping over in bed and throwing the covers aside. 

The pieces of Sam’s sleep-filled utterances clicked into place. John was glad he didn’t emulate Joshua’s preferred organizational technique of papering his room with his research when the boys were around. It was convenient to pin up articles and use the walls as a giant tack-board, but it was too risky. Even if Sam had orders to stay out of John’s things, he could hardly keep him out of his room altogether, and especially not on occasions like this, when Dean had given him permission to go in. And neither Sam nor Dean needed to see the images John acquainted himself with on a regular basis.

“Hey, buddy, it’s me,” John said. 

“Dad?”

“Yeah. How’re you feeling, champ?”

Dean burrowed into his pillow, but his feet kicked their way out of the sheet. “M’okay.”

“Got a fever, kiddo.”

“M’okay.”

“Did you throw up?” John settled himself against the wall, crossing his ankles. He twitched the covers over his son.

“Sammy tell you about that?” Dean asked weakly.

“No, but looks like you were worried about it happening again.” 

“Sammy,” Dean said in attribution. “M’fine. Just tired.” He wheezed and a cough racked through his body. He struggled to sit up until the hacking fit passed, then collapsed back down.

“Yeah, you’re fine, all right. Did you take some of Sam’s cough medicine? Do we even have any still?”

Dean made a noise that John couldn’t interpret, but his head moved up and down on the pillow. 

“What time?”

“Uh,” Dean half-squeaked, half-moaned. “About…five? Five-thirty?”

“Okay, time for another dose, then.” John rose and went into the bathroom. He found the bottle right out on the sink, but the dosing cup was cracked. He had a tablespoon in the kitchen, so he went and got it and crouched by Dean.

“Sit up for a second, bud.” He measured out one tablespoon while Dean struggled to lift his head. John cradled Dean’s head in one hand and fed him the spoonful of medicine with the other. The motion gave him flashbacks, not only to feeding both Dean and Sam when they were infants, but all the way back to when his mother used to make him take medicine when he was sick. 

Dean gagged a little on the cough syrup, but swallowed it dutifully.

“Water?” John offered.

“Yeah.”

John filled a cup in the kitchen and brought it back. Dean had pushed himself to sit against the wall.

“Sorry, sir,” he said miserably when John gave him the drink.

“Nothing to be sorry about, bud. Everybody gets sick sometimes.”

“Yeah, but….” Dean blinked hard.

“But what?”

“I had a snowball fight at school and Jason stuffed snow down my back and that’s why I’m sick!” Dean’s confession tumbled out in a rapid sequence that rose in pitch and increased in speed as he forced the words into one breath. He looked down at his lap. The light through the door caught in a tear as it fell to the covers. John realized with a shock that Dean was crying. 

“Hey,” John said gently. “Dude, it’s okay. You didn’t get sick on purpose, Dean.” John put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean swiped angrily at his eyes with his PJ sleeve. John leaned over for the box of tissues on the floor by the bed, next to the alarm clock. “Anyway, you can’t get sick that quickly. So whatever this is, you were probably getting it yesterday, or even the day before. Having a snowball fight had nothing to do with it.”

“Really?”

“Swear to God, dude.”

Dean sniffed noisily. John jiggled the tissue box and Dean took one. He honked his nose, coughed a bit, pulled himself together. “Sorry.”

“I said it’s okay.”

“Sorry for being a baby.”

“Well, you’re sick. I’ll let you get away with it this time.” John smiled. He eased Dean’s shoulders away from the wall, rubbing his back. “Does your chest feel tight?”

“A little.”

“Sore throat?”

“Yeah.”

“Head hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Tummy?”

“Not since I puked.”

“Okay. Shivers?”

“Before. Now’m really hot.”

“Yeah. You’ve got the flu, kiddo. Maybe strep. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow. Lie down; get some sleep.”

“M’hot,” Dean protested when John tried to settle him back under the covers.

“I know. Gotta sweat to get the fever to break.” He pulled himself onto his knees to tuck Dean in. Dean grabbed his arm.

“Daddy? Don’go.”

John froze. Sam still occasionally added the syllable when he was cranky or wheedling for something, but it had probably been five years since Dean had called him that. He must have felt worse than he was letting on—which, come to think of it, wasn’t all that unusual. 

For either of them.

“M’not going anywhere, sport. Stayin’ right here.” He adjusted Sam’s pillow behind his back, crossed his ankles and got comfortable while Dean burrowed his head toward John’s thigh. John’s hand found a natural resting place on Dean’s shoulder. 

~*~

The boys’ alarm clock went off at the usual time. John woke quickly and shut it off before it disturbed Dean’s sleep, then went next door to shake Sammy.

“S’Dean okay?”

John drew a deep breath. “Well, he’s not feeling too good.” He put the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead. “How about you, kiddo?”

“Does Dean get to stay home from school?” Sam asked, ignoring his father’s attempt to check his temperature.

“Yup.” John predicted the next question and answered it before Sam had a chance to form it. “And no, you don’t get to stay home just because Dean’s sick. C’mon, up, Sammy.”

John managed to get Sam up, dressed, breakfasted, and ready to go in only a little longer than the usual amount of time—longer because Sam kept insisting that Dean needed this or that little comfort, and because John kept insisting that Sam move quietly in the room where Dean was sleeping and not bother him. Once Sam had his books together, John brought him downstairs and they walked around the block to the car. Approximately four inches of snow accumulated overnight. After cleaning off his door, John started the Impala, swiped off the rear door, opened it, and let Sam sit inside its cocoon while he scraped off the rest of the windows. Even with the heater cranked, it was still cold in the car by the time he could see to drive.

The one thing about Michigan was that no one really thought much about closing school due to snowstorms. It was barely worth driving the five blocks, but John didn’t want Sam to walk alone. He dropped Sam off and swung over to the drug store for more supplies for Dean: juice, more chicken soup, Children’s Tylenol, cold medicine, and Vick’s. He picked up a travel-size thermometer, too, since the one he’d bought when Sam had been ill the previous year had broken in the med kit.

When he came back to the apartment, he checked on Dean, who was still out like a light. He put on a fresh pot of coffee. The numbers for both boys’ schools were tacked to the fridge. John pulled the information for South, took it into the living room where the phone sat, and called the school to report Dean’s absence. It was still too early to call the store, or anywhere else, for that matter, but he could organize his findings from yesterday and call around later. Dean being sick was inconvenient, but couldn’t be helped.

A noise in the room alerted him and he came in quickly. “You okay?” he asked, turning on the light. Dean was kicking his covers away.

“Gotta pee,” Dean muttered. His voice was small and squeaky. He rolled off the mattress onto the floor, on hands and knees. It seemed to be taking him a long time to stand up.

“Planning on crawling?” John asked. He wanted to pick Dean up, but knew better than to offer.

“Working…on it,” Dean told him. He used the wall and made it to his feet, then lurched past his father and across the hall to the bathroom. He came out a few minutes later. John brought him two Children’s Tylenol capsules and a glass of juice.

“Drink this slowly, but drink it all, okay?”

“Yessir.” In the light, John saw that Dean’s color was a little better, but his eyes were still fever-bright and his cheeks were flushed. Sitting up against the wall, Dean swallowed the pills and drank the juice as ordered. Then John made him lie back down. Within minutes, Dean was sleeping fitfully again.

John pulled a chair in from the living room and sat by Dean’s side, paging through his journal, working through his notes.

After about an hour, John figured he could move to the living room and make his calls. He started with the store. Next he called Jane Kimmel, the woman who had been injured the day before. 

“Hello?”

“Jane Kimmel?” he asked. “This is John McIntyre—I was at the mall when you fell. I said I’d call to find out how you’re doing.”

“Oh. Yes, I remember. The doctor says it’s a clean break, but I’ll be laid up for a while. Thank you for calling.”

“I wondered if you could tell me exactly what happened?” John asked quickly before she could politely hang up. “Whatever you remember.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Actually, yes. You see, I’m looking into some problems with crowd control over at Santa’s Workshop, so anything you could tell me would help me figure out how to keep it from happening again.”

Jane was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure it was anything the Workshop people did. I was standing in line waiting for my son and I stepped away. I must have got my coat caught in the rope or something, because I felt a tug down by my knee. When I twisted my leg to get free, I lost my balance. I don’t know what happened next, but I felt something snap. The doctor says I sprained my knee going down. Then that heavy pole landed on my leg and I screamed. It really hurt.” She paused.

“I’m sure it did,” John offered, because she expected him to say something.

“The next thing I knew, all these people were standing over me. Including you. And you were asking for coats and ordering people to call the ambulance. Thank you again, by the way.”

John nodded, remembered she couldn’t see him on the phone, and muttered a noncommittal acknowledgment. “Do you recall seeing anything strange just before you tripped?”

“Like what?”

“Well…for example, anyone who didn’t look like they belonged? Or someone where they probably shouldn’t have been?”

“Everyone either had a costume or they were standing in line for Santa,” Jane told him. “But…as for people being where they shouldn’t, there was that one elf….”

“Yes?” John prompted. “What about him. Her?”

“Her. She was…she was walking along the lines, and then she crossed right into the display. I figured she was taking a short cut or something. Are they allowed to do that?”

John grunted. “Not usually. Where did she go?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I didn’t see her come out the other side. I must have just lost track of her in the tree branches.”

“She walked into the Christmas tree?”

“Well, not into it, I’m sure. But in that direction. It was kind of odd.”

“And she disappeared.”

“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t see her again.”

“What did she look like?”

“Oh, blonde, long straight hair. Maybe in her mid-twenties?”

John asked a few more careful questions to help identify his new prime suspect. “One last thing, Mrs. Kimmel: You said you were standing in line. Is that all you were doing?”

“That’s all.”

“Then why did you move away from the line?”

“Oh—I was just getting out my last cigarette. I was going to throw away the pack.”

“I see,” John said, though it confused him more than ever. This spirit, or whatever it was, seemed obsessed with trash. At least one of the victims so far had been something of a litterbug and trashcans had been one of its chosen weapons. But if Jane had been about to throw out her trash, why would the spirit be angry at her? It made no sense. “Well. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I hope your leg doesn’t ruin your Christmas.”

“You and me both, Mr. McIntyre. Happy holidays.”

He made a couple more calls, leaving messages but not reaching anyone. A little while later, he let himself into the boys’ room quietly. Dean was sleeping, but he had nestled into the blanket and was shaking with chills. John checked his watch; it was about time for another dose of cold medicine, anyway. He brought in the other blanket from his bed and draped it over his son. Then he poured a little water in a cup and fetched a couple capsules from the pill bottle.

“Hey, bud,” he said softly as he lowered himself to the floor by Dean’s mattress. “Got some more medicine for you.”

Dean snuffled and moaned as he sat up. John felt his forehead and frowned. “Let me take your temperature before you take these.” He got the thermometer. With an expert wrist flick, he shook the thermometer down below room temp and held it out to Dean’s mouth. Dean shot him a mutinous glare.

“M’fine—mmph!” John stuck the thermometer in when Dean spoke.

“Under your tongue, dude,” John instructed. “If your fever stays up high much longer, we’re gonna find a free clinic for something stronger than the Tylenol.”

Dean didn’t have to speak to communicate what he thought about that.

A few minutes later, John put an end to Dean’s enforced silence. He held the thermometer against his index finger and twisted it to find the readings. “Hundred and two, kiddo,” came his verdict, and with it the sentence: more Tylenol. “How’s your throat?”

“Kinda tight,” Dean admitted.

“How ’bout your tummy? I can put water on—think you can manage some tea and a little toast?”

Dean turned a little green around the edges of his face, but he sighed. “Maybe some toast would be good.”

“Tea?” John pressed.

Dean made a face.

“It’ll help your throat,” John reasoned. “I think there’s honey from the Chicken McNuggets last week.”

Dean shrugged and nodded solemnly. “Okay.”

John got back with the makeshift meal and sat with Dean while he worked on his toast and choked down the tea.

“Grownups drink this stuff?” he asked after managing about half the mug.

John laughed. “Lots of ’em.”

“Huh.”

“How’s that toast?”

“Dry.”

“Yup. Think it’s gonna stay down?”

Dean shrugged. “M’tired.”

“Okay.” John took away the remains of Dean’s food—most of the crusts and the half-mug of tea—and let Dean cocoon himself back in his blankets. By the time he came back from the kitchen, Dean had thrown aside the cover from John’s bed.

“Too hot,” he complained.

“That’s good, though,” John told him. “Means the medicine and the tea are working.” He folded the blanket so that it was within Dean’s reach. “In case you need it. I’m just in the living room, if you need me. Okay?”

He heard gagging ten minutes later, and came in time to rush Dean into the bathroom. Suppressing his own gag reflex at the smell of sick kid, he held Dean’s head, then gave him water to sip.

“No more tea,” Dean said weakly. He’d lost the Tylenol, too. John gave him half a dose, in case it didn’t stay put.

Once he settled Dean again and the poor kid was really asleep, John went back out to his phone calls. Using the company information Lyle Olohan had given him, John found someone who could supply him with a list of the employees at Santa’s Workshop. He’d have to drive out to get it; their offices were in a complex not far from the mall. But he could check the records that evening, and find out who Miss Elf might be—if she was even on the books, and not a phantom as he suspected.

If he left within the hour, he could pick up Sammy on the way home. He was worried about leaving Dean alone, though.

He checked on his son again. Dean was snoring louder than a bear in hibernation. John promised himself Dean would be fine, and he’d make his errand a quick one.


	5. Chapter 5

It took a little finessing to convince Gina Tupelo, office manager for the Holiday Happenings regional office, that he was not hunting around on behalf of a lawsuit. 

“I mean, we just know someone’s going to try to pin these accidents on us,” Gina said, swishing around in her attractive skirt. She was still young looking and only a little rounded around the edges, but her hair was shot with silver. Something about the trim way she moved through the office made John think of a ballroom dancer—maybe that was what kept her so spry. “Poor Lyle, he’s going out of his mind, requesting additional security, asking about better crowd control—there’s just no budget. Y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” John agreed soothingly. That’s why I’m doing a more thorough background check on the employees. We think maybe someone’s playing Grinch with his operation.”

“Huh. He didn’t request a purchase order for a private investigator.”

“No—I’m not under contract with him directly. This comes from higher up.”

“Oh.” She grinned. “You know, we run holiday displays for about ten malls in the area, and Lyle’s the best manager we’ve got. He’s always been a bit of a con artist. How he can squeeze so much work out of the mall is beyond me. You know he got them to go in for half of the decorations _and_ pay to have everything installed this year? Usually we get billed for the union, but this year he got around it somehow. Mr. Gustafson just tells him he doesn’t want to know how many laws he’s breaking, as long as it doesn’t come back to haunt us.”

John bit back a bark of laughter. “Haunt. Funny you should use that word.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well….” He scrunched up his face and shifted his weight, making it clear that his next statement was not his idea. “I heard some talk when I was out there earlier this week. People are a little nuts, you know? But seems there’s some thought that the Workshop itself might be haunted. Crazy, huh?” he said, smiling confidentially at Gina’s disbelieving expression. “But I just talked to someone who thought one of the elves actually disappeared.” He chuckled indulgently. “Can you believe that?”

But Gina wasn’t gawping in shared contempt. She had gone quiet. John leaned forward. “Well, it’s just talk, isn’t it?” he confided with a wink.

“I don’t know,” Gina said slowly. “You’ll probably think I’m nuts for even saying it, but they might be right. I mean, you’ve read Del’s statement?”

John frowned.

“Del. Del Masters, the Santa whose eye nearly got poked out?”

“Oh—right. Yes, I’ve read it.” John wondered if he could get his hands on it. Now that he had a last name, he might be able to catch him before he was released from St. Mary’s.

“Well, didn’t he say that the ornaments moved on their own? And what on earth could make a hundred ornaments fly off the tree like that, all at once? I went out there the day after it happened, Mr. McIntyre. There was glass _everywhere_.”

“So…you think there could be something haunting the area?” John asked quite seriously.

“I don’t know. But I think Lyle’s right to get you investigating. I mean, after what happened to poor Lisa Stoddard….”

“Right,” John said, though he wasn’t certain which one Stoddard had been. “How’s she doing?”

“I talked to her on the phone yesterday. She says she’s always wanted to learn to write with her left hand. Poor thing, putting a brave face on it like that.”

“Life gives you lemons,” John said. He remembered now. Lisa Stoddard had broken her arm when her ladder had collapsed under her. “So, she’s not planning to sue, then?” he asked.

“Lisa? Oh, no, I can’t imagine. She was all alone when it happened.”

“What was she doing there, again?”

“She’d gone in to freshen up the paint on the Workshop building. She says she’d just put down her brush and stopped for a break. She turned around to lean on the ladder while she rested, and BAM! The whole thing toppled.”

“Was it an old ladder?”

“No—what’s even weirder is it was aluminum. Nothing should have broken that thing, certainly not Lisa. Even if,” Gina leaned in flirtatiously, “she could stand to lose a few pounds.”

“Does anyone else have a grudge against the company?” John asked.

“Oh, well…. There’s always a disgruntled parent or two, but nothing threatening, if that’s what you mean. And I hate to think it’s one of our people. Lyle’s usually so careful about who he hires. But at this point, I really hope you find something. Lord knows the police just think it’s pranksters.”

“What about the teenage employees—couldn’t they be rigging stuff to go off? Could they have tampered with her ladder, and so on?”

Gina shrugged as if to say that John was the expert. She patted his arm. “I guess that’s what your background checks will decide.”

“Guess you’re right.”

He took the lists and the photocopied files with him to read through that night.

~*~

The school had a pickup loop that had been plowed, but piles of snow still lined the edges, reducing its usual two lanes to one and a half. That morning, cars had been backed up around the corner to drop kids off. But when John pulled up, the loop was practically deserted. He checked his watch, fearing that he’d lingered too long at the management office and was late. He was late, but only by about fifteen minutes. 

Sammy was standing just inside the double doors, snow pants and coat on, but coat unzipped and mittens dangling from the cuffs. When he saw the big black car, he grabbed his stuff and came running. He had to use both hands to open the heavy back door.

“How’s Dean?” Sam asked as soon as he climbed inside.

“Hello to you, too,” John said. “And how was your day?”

“Sorry.” John watched in the mirror while Sam, blushing, buckled his seatbelt. “School was fine. How’s Dean?”

John chuckled. “He’s pretty miserable, but I think he’ll live. Hey, Sammy? Where’re all the other kids?”

Sam paused before answering. To be on the safe side, John kept the car in Park until he understood the situation better. Over the years, John had come to appreciate that any hesitation on either of his sons’ parts was a sure sign that he wasn’t about to get the whole truth. Usually he reminded himself that keeping certain things from parents was a part of being a child, especially a sibling. But part of him insisted that any secret, however small, was a potential danger in his children’s lives. He couldn’t protect them if he didn’t know everything that was going on, even tasks as banal as volcano projects.

“They’re…um…they’re staying a little later.”

“Why?” John drew the word out, fighting not to growl it.

Sam paled. This was even more damning than his embarrassed flush. In John’s experience, it meant he had just caught Sam with his hand in the metaphoric cookie jar. “Sammy?”

“I din’t hafta stay. I’m not breaking any rules.” Sam said it too fast, and his pitch rose steadily into the stratosphere as he jumped to his own defense. John hadn’t even figured out what to accuse him of doing yet.

“Stay for what?” He twisted to look over the seat back directly at Sam.

“For…for a practice. But I’m not in it. I don’t hafta be,” Sam added quickly.

John narrowed his eyes. Something did not add up. “Practice for what?”

“A pageant. Is Dean all alone at home?” Sam asked.

John recognized the deflection, but Sammy had a point: he’d left Dean a couple hours ago and they really did need to get back. “We’re not finished with this conversation,” John promised, but he put the Impala in gear and made the left-hand turn to drive the short trip home.

Once inside, Sammy stripped off his outer layer and hurried to his room. “Don’t bother your brother too much, Sam,” John called after him. “And let me know if he needs anything.” Sam opened the door gently and disappeared through it, while John settled himself on the couch to sort the files and pull out the likely targets.

~*~

When Sam came in to their room, Dean was sitting up, flipping through a magazine. A short stack of comics lay on the bed next to him.

“Don’t come too close, Sammy,” he croaked.

“Dean, we gotta problem,” Sam said urgently.

“We?”

“Dad picked me up an’ he asked about all th’other kids, and I tol’im I din’t hafta be inna pageant,” Sammy babbled, ignoring Dean’s comment.

“Whoa…. Slow down, dummy…why’d you tell him about the pageant?”

“He noticed I was waiting all by myself, Dean. He asked where everyone was.” Sam’s eyes were bugged out. 

“Why didn’t you just say they’d all gone home already?”

Sammy leafed through a comic book. His silence was an eloquent answer. Dean sighed. “Okay, well, what did he ask and what precisely did you tell him?”

Sam related the exchange with their father. “It was freaky, Dean, like…he knew exackly how to ask so I couldn’t make something up. You’re right, Dean: Dad’s like Superman, only he’s got x-ray vision for thoughts.”

“Yup, I said, Dad’s good at stuff like that,” Dean agreed. “Okay, so when he asks again—and he will—you say that you came in to the school too late and all the parts were assigned, so they just asked you if you really wanted to be in it and you said no.”

“Okay.”

“Can you remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, nostrils flaring. “It’s basically what you said Miz Johnson told you, anyway. Only backwards.”

“Wanna practice?”

Sam bit his lip. “Okay. You be Dad.”

Dean cleared his throat with a wince. When he spoke, it was using as deep and growling a voice as he could manage. “So, Sammy, what’s this again about the pageant at school?”

“Whaddaya mean, Dad?” Sam said, wide-eyed and cherubic.

“Why aren’t you in it with the other kids?”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “Miz Johnson said I din’t have to if I din’t want to.”

“Why’s that?”

“B’cause she said they’d have to take parts away from th’others to make a part for me, since we got here so late.” He beamed. “How was that, Dean?”

“Pretty good. But don’t grin so much—you need a better poker face.”

“But you won’t teach me poker.”

“You don’t need to know how to play to have a poker face, dumb-butt!”

Sam giggled. “R’you feeling better?”

“Sure. I’m ready to run the marathon, Sammy.” He would have been a lot more convincing if he hadn’t started coughing. “Crap,” he observed when he could talk again.

“Dad said to tell him if you want anything.”

“M’a little hungry. Maybe ask him if I could have some Ramen?”

“Okay.” Sam went out. His dad was sifting through a ream of photocopied pages in manila folders. “Dad?”

His father closed the file he was reading quickly. “Hey, Sammy. How’s he doing?”

“He asked for Ramen.”

Dad nodded. “We can do that.”

“Gotta wash the pot, though.”

“Yeah, I know. You have any homework?”

“A little. Gotta draw a picture of something you do in the snow. An’ I have some writing.”

“What letter are you on?” Mrs. Peabody had been teaching them to write by using words that all started with the same letter. They had a different letter every assignment.

“T. Twenty-five words that all start with T.”

“Okay.” Dad put the stack of folders on the floor by the sofa arm. “I want to take Dean’s temperature, anyway. Here. You set up here at the coffee table, kiddo, an’ I’ll wash the dishes and make Dean his soup. Deal?”

“Yessir.” Dad got up and went in to talk to Dean.

Sam gathered up his bookbag and dug for his supplies. He wrote his words out first, to get them out of the way. Then using a blank sheet of paper, he drew a black car shape on one side of the page, coloring in the tires as two concentric circles with white showing between. Next to this, he drew two bubble figures, one taller than the other. He colored the tall one green, because Dean’s puffy coat was Army green, and the short one he made blue, because his snowsuit was blue. He colored their hair in so it was clear they were facing away, toward the open white corner of the page. On the white expanse, he took a yellow crayon and wrote, “SAM” and next to that, “DEAN.” 

Satisfied with his masterpiece, he folded it up and put it and his spelling list into his bag. 

“Sam, come eat,” Dad called from the kitchen. They ate together at the bar counter.

“Can Dean come out and watch TV?” Sam asked during the meal.

“No, he’s going back to sleep.”

“M’I sleeping in your room again?”

“I think it’s best, kiddo,” Dad told him. “You done?”

“Yes,” Sam said glumly. Evenings weren’t as fun when Dean wasn’t able to spend time with him. 

“Okay. Now go on and watch your shows. I want to check on Dean again.”

Sam went back to the living room and pulled out the remote to turn on the TV. Sitting on the floor put his head right near the cushions and the skirt. They smelled faintly of stale beer, but Sam could almost imagine it was the warm, yeasty smell of bread baking. 

After a few minutes, Dad came back out and invited Sam to sit with him on the couch. Sam thought he knew what was coming. He tucked himself onto his father’s lap and braced to emulate Dean’s best poker face.

“Now, go slow,” Dad said, “and tell me about this pageant business. Why aren’t you in it with the other kids?”

Sam took a deep breath. He knew his only shot was to stay cool. “There’s a pageant, but Miz Johnson said they’d have to take lines away from th’other kids, so I said I din’t want to be in it, and she said okay.” He was careful to keep his voice steady.

“And that’s what they were practicing?”

“Yup.”

“Without you.”

“Yessir.”

“Hm. That’s it?” Dad frowned.

Sam nodded, his head banging against Dad’s chest. He was glad he could look away without making it obvious. “Honest, Daddy.”

To Sam’s surprise, Dad gave him a squeeze. “Okay.”

Sam twisted around to look at him. “Okay?” He’d be so certain Dad would detect the lie. He’d been sure Dad would demand a more thorough explanation. Luckily, he was too genuinely confused to give himself away, but he reminded himself that he had to stay calm. Dad was very, very good, and he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“Yeah. You said you didn’t want to; she listened to you. So, okay.”

Sam couldn’t believe his luck. Dad believed him! Unless it was a trap. “Huh.”

“What?”

_Whoops_. He hadn’t meant to say anything out loud. Sam thought fast. What would Dean do? Affecting his brother’s easy confidence, he shrugged. “I dunno, I jus…I thought you’d be mad.”

“With you? No. Why don’t you go get ready for bed? You can watch more TV, but I want you in your PJ’s before Dean gets to sleep and you disturb him.” Dad kissed his head lightly and applied a little pressure to his back. Sam slid off the couch and went readily. First, he wanted to tell Dean about his success; second, he wanted to get away quickly before Dad changed his mind and decided to probe further.

Dean was sitting up, leafing through a comic book when Sam came in to change. “Dad said you were s’posed to go to sleep,” he told him.

“Yup,” Dean said. “I just haven’t done it yet.”

While he changed, Sam related Dad’s uncharacteristically mild reaction to Sam’s explanation, and Dean agreed that it was weird, but neither could figure out why. Maybe Dad didn’t care about school plays and stuff, although he’d been sure to go other times. Maybe he was distracted because Dean had been sick. They couldn’t decide.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing, because I bet you would’ve caved if he’d put on any pressure.”

“Would not!”

“Whatever.”

“Take it back.”

“Dude, what are you, seven?” Dean asked, then chuckled. “Oh, wait: You are.”

Sam scowled and went back out to watch TV. 

Sitting next to Dad was cool, even if Dad was working on something, reading the files he’d set aside earlier. Sam wasn’t sure what Dad did, but Dean had told him it was important and that he shouldn’t ask about it. Anyway, that wasn’t what he wanted to know, tonight. Tonight, Sam wanted to ask about when they could go shopping, since Dean said they’d have money for their Christmas fund because they didn’t get pizza the night before. But asking to go buy Christmas presents was tricky, and not just because he didn’t want to interrupt. Dad thought he still believed in Santa, and Sam didn’t want to disappoint Dad. Not that he didn’t believe, exactly, but he wasn’t as sure as he used to be.

On the one hand, no matter where they went, Santa always found them. Even last year when they’d been living in Ohio, and stayed overnight with that nice Mrs. Kirkland. Sam had woken up that morning to find that several of the wrapped gifts under her tree were for him and Dean. But he knew that most of them—the socks and the Swiss army knife and even Dean’s gloves—were really from Dad. And even though they each had one present “from Santa,” Sam suddenly wasn’t sure. Dad had always assured him that Santa’s presents (the “main present,” as Sam came to call it) were never boring things like clothes or school supplies. 

Thinking back on last Christmas, though, it seemed to him that Mrs. Kirkland and Dad had exchanged some suspiciously gleeful looks over his Ninja Turtle Sewer Playset and Dean’s Walkman—before he or his brother had opened them. It seemed like they’d already known what was inside the packages. And how was that possible, if the gifts came from Santa? He’d tried to ask Dean, but Dean just told him that Dad must have called Santa to let him know where to find them, and Santa must have told Dad what they were getting. That had satisfied Sam at the time, but the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. 

Sam was pretty sure “Santa” was actually Dad, or at least that Dad bought the gifts and _gave_ them to Santa, who then turned around and gave them right back. Because two Christmases ago, Sam dimly remembered, they were down in Alabama. They’d been staying with a friend of Dad’s and then Dad made them leave really quickly in the middle of the night. They went to a cabin in the backwoods. Dad said it was because he wanted them to learn to track, but Dean thought it was because they were pretty much out of money. In any case, Dad had driven them into town on the Saturday before Christmas so they could get groceries and supplies, because they’d left a lot of their things behind. Dad went through the store and as they were walking back to the car, he’d stopped. 

“Damn. I forgot the aspirin,” Dad said. He’d put Dean and Sam in the car with the sacks of food while he went back for the extra item.

Dad had taken a long time getting the pills. When he came out, he’d had a paper bag with a lot more than aspirin in it. He put the bag in the trunk, so Sam hadn’t seen what was inside then. When they got back to the cabin, though, he peeked in the bag. There’d been a couple coloring books inside, and copies of “Motor Trend,” “Car Collector,” and “Car and Driver.” 

And when Christmas morning came, his present “from Santa” had been coloring books and new crayons—the box with the sharpener right in it. And Santa had brought Dean the same magazines he’d seen in Dad’s grocery bag. He’d asked Dean about that, too, and Dean said that probably Dad had to help out because the cabin wasn’t marked on any of Santa’s maps.

So if Santa did exist, he was getting an awful lot of help from Dad.

That was okay, Sam thought, because he knew Santa had a big job. And Dad was usually pretty awesome, even if he did have to leave them with Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim, and even alone occasionally. If anyone could help out Santa, it was Dad. But it left open the question of whether Santa existed at all. His previous classmates all seemed to think he did. Moreover, it seemed like _Dean_ believed, so Sam was pretty sure he was real.

Which was kind of a problem, because Sam hadn’t written a letter this year, and he wasn’t sure there was time before Christmas for something to get to the North Pole. Kris Melrose in his class had told him that Santa had a bunch of deputies who worked in the mall. Sam had no idea how far away the mall was, but maybe, if Dean got better, they could all go. He’d use his Christmas money to get something small for Dean and Dad, from Sam, not Santa. And while they were there, Sam could tell Santa’s deputy what he wanted. Or maybe he should trust Dad with the information, and ask him to use his connections. But if Santa really wasn’t real, and really was just Dad, then Sam didn’t want to appear foolish.

It was all very confusing. He thought he’d disappoint Dad if he told him he didn’t believe in Santa and Santa was real, but he was also afraid that if Santa wasn’t real, he’d make Dad sad by asking for something Dad couldn’t get for him. And none of that helped him figure out what to do with his Christmas money.

He really wished he could talk about it with Dean. But Dean was probably asleep by now. Sam yawned, nestling down so he could lay his head on Dad’s leg.

To be on the safe side, he decided, he’d write a letter quickly. It was less than two weeks until Christmas, but Uncle Bobby had told him that the postcard they’d sent him from Maine had reached him in five days, and from Maine to South Dakota was probably about as far as from Michigan to the North Pole. Maybe Kris Melrose was going to the mall and would deliver the letter for him. Though he wouldn’t be able to buy anything if he couldn’t go, too.

Sam thought about his problem all the way through the reruns and _Wonder Years_ and halfway through _Growing Pains_. Just as he was drifting off, he came to the only solution that made any sense: He just had to figure out how to get to the mall himself.


	6. Chapter 6

After leaving Sam to his homework before dinner, John took Dean’s temperature again. It had been down a bit—99.6º—which wasn’t surprising given the kid had been sitting up when John came in with the bag from the drug store. But the fever still wasn’t gone, even if Dean thought it meant he was cured.

“I’ll bring your soup, but then I want you to go back to sleep, dude.”

“M’tired of sleepin’, Dad. Been sleepin’ all day.”

“Yeah, and it’s working. Fever’s down.”

Dean stared coughing—it was shallow at first, then grew deeper until John could tell the coughs rasped in Dean’s lungs. Sounded like it hurt like hell.

“After you eat, more cough medicine—oh, and I got Vick’s for you.” He reached into the sack and pulled out several bottles to strip them of their plastic seals.

“What?”

“Remember when Sammy had bronchitis?”

“The minty stuff you told me to put on his chest?”

“Yup.”

“Smells like Ben-Gay.”

“It’s camphor—same stuff.”

Dean scowled. “I don’t wanna smell like that creepy Mr. Runyon.”

“Who?” John frowned.

”Mr. Runyon. He lived down the hall from us in Hazleton, coupla three years ago? He always smelled like mothballs.”

John rolled his eyes. He remembered now: Runyon had asked him to help with his sink one afternoon because the superintendent of the building had been out of town. He’d talked while John worked. Runyon had arthritis, hands bent like tree trunks in a Dr. Seuss book, and he’d lost his wife ten years previously to cancer. The camphor smell was from the sport crème he used for his joints, but the whiskey had been the smell of grief. He’d picked up on John’s single-parent status and offered to watch the boys now and then. John had figured, even at eight and four, they’d be better off without the drunk’s supervision.

“Would you rather smell funny for a couple of days, or look funny for the rest of your life?” John asked deadpan.

It took Dean a minute. But when he got it, he scrunched his face up at his father. “You’re right, Dad. Much worse to have to look like _you_ forever.”

John laughed and swiped playfully at Dean’s head. Dean got his hand up to block, but John was stronger and faster, and his hand connected. He ruffled Dean’s short hair, leaned in, and shook Dean’s head affectionately. “You’re feeling a little better,” he declared. “Still movin’ kinda slow, though, huh?”

“Shoulda blocked,” Dean muttered. “I hate being sick.”

“You and everyone else, bucko,” John told him, “I’ll be back with your dinner.”

As he worked in the kitchen, John went through a mental assessment of Dean’s illness. The fever was down, but not gone—so he was less worried about having to take Dean to the hospital. The cough was getting worse, which meant that all the junk from his sinuses had probably settled in his chest. Dean talked like his throat still hurt, croaky and with a bit of a rasp. That could have been exacerbated by the snowball fight. In addition to his blurted lunchtime confession, Dean had given John the highlights of the battle while he ate his toast and related how one of his opponents had stuffed snow down his back. John was sure that had brought on the timing of his worst symptoms—but he wasn’t about to yell at the kid for, well, being a kid. Having a little fun.

He still felt like he’d been too harsh on Dean back in Fort Douglass—not because Dean disobeyed him, but because he shouldn’t have left him in charge when the stakes were so high. John had known the damn shtriga went after siblings, but he’d mistaken Dean’s usual maturity and diligence for blind obedience.

He dried the pot and filled it with water to start a boil, reflecting that he should have known his kid better than that.

Somewhere in his quest to both protect Dean from the details of hunting and impress on him the importance of his responsibilities, John had missed two vital facts: first, that Dean’s faith in his father meant that he also expected John could protect him from anything; and second, no matter how well Dean had handled babysitting Sam before, he was still a kid. And he had no way to know that the situation in Fort Douglass had been special—that the usual flexibility he could exercise when watching Sam wasn’t an option that time.

And that, John knew, was John’s fault.

Because after six years of training, John should have made it clearer that orders were not to be followed on a case-by-case basis, when he felt like it. Dean should have understood that John didn’t limit his freedom capriciously—that if he’d said not to leave, he meant it, and there was a damn good reason. Maybe Dean needed a close call to bring the lesson home—and John told himself that in that much, his flush of anger had been completely justified—but after the fact, that’s when John felt he’d overplayed his disappointment. He didn’t want Dean to forget the moral, any more than he ever wanted Dean to risk himself or Sam like that again, so he’d hardened himself against his impulse to let Dean off the hook. Had to give the boy credit: He’d become even more serious about his role in John’s quest, to John’s mixed relief and dismay. He could have rebelled just as easily, John knew. That possibility had occurred to him. And if Dean had? If he’d flat-out refused to cooperate after that? John had wrestled with that question for weeks after the failed hunt.

Steam rose out of the pot. John slipped the noodles in and pushed them under with a wooden spoon, still distracted, even a year later, by the thought that he might have had to quit.

On the scale of reality checks, Fort Douglass was up there with the day his platoon landed in Nam, Dean’s birth, John’s first conversation with Missouri, and his first visit to the Roadhouse. It was the kind of incident that brought home to him just how very far over his head he was. His immediate conclusion was simply that he’d pushed Dean too far, too fast. He’d backed off a little, finding them a safe enough town and limiting himself to one- or two-day jobs. He’d watched Dean closely until he was sure that Dean was not planning a mutiny. John had come close to quitting, anyway, thinking that the job’s dangers—the risk to his boys—was too great. There were…other distractions pulling on him at the time, too, but at first, anyway, it was all about finding their footing again. But when he noticed that the incident seemed to strengthen Dean’s commitment, he lifted up a grateful prayer to Jim’s God—or whichever gods were listening—and to Mary for passing her strength and fortitude on to their boy. With Dean back on board, John could go on doing what he felt he had to do.

But all that didn’t mean he wanted to cheat Dean out of every meaningful childhood experience—or many of the lighthearted ones, either. Which brought him back to the snowball fight. He dumped in the flavor packet and stirred the noodles. So the kid had let loose, made a couple friends, maybe, and taken some playtime for himself. It was just bad luck that he’d been coming down with the flu at the same time. He didn’t need a guilt trip about it…and he sure as hell didn’t need to think that any playfulness would automatically result in a bad outcome. John would be damned before he’d let Dean think no good could come of ever having fun. The psychologists had a fancy term for that: associative dysfunction. John called it a load of bullshit.

He set Dean’s bowl and spoon on a makeshift tray to take in to him.

“After this, can I watch some TV?” Dean asked.

“Let’s see how this goes, okay? I think you’ll need to get back to sleep.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Tired of bed.”

“I know,” John said. He didn’t mention that nearly everything he’d tried to put in Dean today had come right back out. “Eat that slowly,” he directed.

He stepped across the hall for to refill Dean’s water glass and came back to sit with him, folding his legs Indian-style on the floor. “Hey, Dean…do you know anything about the kids in Sammy’s school staying late to practice something?”

Dean choked on his soup and started coughing. John rescued the tray moments before Dean would have toppled it all over. “Hey, easy, champ!” John said, setting the tray on the floor hastily. “Did it go down wrong?”

Dean nodded as he gasped for air. John patted his back and handed him the glass of water. “Y’okay?” he asked when the coughing subsided.

“Yeah….” Dean leaned back against the wall. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” John handed back the noodles and waited while Dean finished them. “So? Did Sam mention anything to you?”

“No,” Dean said into his bowl. ‘You know Sam, though, sometimes he doesn’t—”

“Yeah, I know. Nevermind, I’ll see if I can get more sense out of him later.”

“If he’s in something, do we have to go watch him?” Dean squinted up at him.

John watched Dean carefully for a sign that he knew something he wasn’t saying. He couldn’t detect any subterfuge, but somehow that made him more nervous.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” he said. “Finished?”

“Yessir.” Dean waited while John got to his feet and then passed off the tray.

“Let’s give that a bit of time to settle. Here. Rub this on your chest – don’t get it in your eyes.” He handed over the Vap-o-Rub and brought the dishes out. Sam was seated on the floor still doing his homework, so John went into the kitchen and washed up, made dinner for himself and Sam. 

“Sam, come eat,” he called. They ate together at the bar counter, then John sent Sam to watch TV while he cleaned up and made sure Dean’s dinner was staying down.

When he came back, he set up his coffee for the next morning and joined Sam in the living room. It was time to find out what Sam had meant about not having to stay late with the other kids.

“Sammy,” he said, patting the couch next to him. Sam looked up and clambered onto the cushion from the floor, curling himself onto John’s lap. “Now, go slow, and tell me about this pageant business. Why aren’t you in it with the other kids?”

Sam took a deep breath. He launched into a simple explanation and after a couple follow-up questions, John had a better sense of what was going on. At least, he thought he understood: sometimes it was hard to tell from the spotty information Sam gave him. John planned to have a word with Sam’s teacher, though—he didn’t like moving them around, but he did want his kids to get the full program wherever they were enrolled. To say nothing of the tail wagging the dog. He planted a quick kiss in Sam’s hair and pushed Sam off his lap with instructions to change for bed, in a way that left no room for Sam to take it as a suggestion.

When Sam had left, John pulled out the files from beside the table. He cross-referenced his list with the files, making notes on one of Sam’s blank sheets of paper when he found an employee who matched the description Joan Kimmel had given him. He set aside their files to read more closely later. Then he went through the list again and pulled out the ones matching the descriptions from his reconnaissance the day before. By that time, Sam came back and curled up next to him while the TV’s light flickered over them both. The next time John looked down, Sam was fast asleep.

~*~

Later that night, Dean woke John up by rolling out of bed and throwing up again. John held his head over the bucket until they reached a break, then hauled him up and carried him to the bathroom. He ran a hot bath while Dean was dry heaving. He sat Dean on the tub to strip his PJ’s and ordered him in to clean up.

He left Dean to it and went back into the boys’ room to get Dean something else to wear. He found a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt, which he brought in.

Dean had washed himself off feebly and pulled himself back to the side of the tub. John handed him a towel, then his clothes. “This sucks,” Dean announced.

John grunted his agreement. He held the door open while Dean stumbled back to his bed, coughing enough to double himself over. John covered him up and came back to the window side.

“Oh, kid,” he sighed as Dean moaned and shook. “Y’know, we’ve been pretty lucky. Most kids get sick around once a year. I think the last time you were this bad off was…oh, must have been the winter before Sammy was born.”

Dean stopped shivering. John looked down; his son’s eyes were shining in the light through the window. He was watching John intently.

“You’d just had a birthday party with all the kids in your Day Care,” John continued. “And I think one of them had been sick. You started in with sniffles and within a day, you were one miserable little dude. And we got through that one together—you and me.”

“You took care of me?” Dean breathed.

“Yeah. Someone had to go up and down all those stairs for whatever you needed. Your m—” John’s breath hitched and he paused. “Your…mother,” he tried again, and this time it came out, if a little hoarsely, “she’d been having these…these stomachaches. Nothing too serious, but the doctors wanted to make sure she got lots of rest, and she couldn’t take the stairs too often. So if I wasn’t bringing you milk or juice or peanut butter sandwiches, I was bringing your m—” It happened again. Out of nowhere, he couldn’t speak. John closed his eyes and drew a deep, steadying breath.

Dean’s hand touched his leg. “I miss her too, Dad,” he whispered.

John swiped his hand over his eyes. “See if you can get back to sleep, buddy.”

Dean’s fever spiked at about 2:00 AM and broke by 3:00. John stripped him down again, dried his clammy skin with a towel, and settled him back in the covers. Dean slept through it all. John listened to his son’s breathing deepen and grow even in the early morning quiet and sighed in relief. He closed his eyes and let Dean’s restful slumber take him down into his own dreamless sleep.

~*~

“I’d like to keep him home another day, let him get his strength back,” John explained to the school secretary. “Should I stop in for his homework?”

“Let me see…. Dean was out yesterday, too?”

“Yes.” He waited while Ms. Innsbruck checked her ledger. He could hear pages turning on her end. “Mr. Winchester? None of Dean’s teachers left assignments for him. If he can’t come back tomorrow, we’ll put together a list for you. Otherwise, he can follow-up with his teachers when he returns to class.”

“Have you met my son?” John asked glibly. “He’s not likely to ask for his back homework.”

“Well, they’ll follow-up with him, then.”

“Right. Thank you,” John told her in clipped tones. He hung up. “Sammy!” he called down the hall. “Stop bugging your brother and let’s go.”

Sam’s head poked out of the doorway. “M’not bugging him,” he whined.

John joined him in the doorway. Dean was sitting up with his bowl of cream of wheat, eating carefully. Sam had his left arm in his sweater and was struggling to get the right arm through its sleeve.

“You’re still pretty weak, kid. You need to rest.”

“M’tired of resting, Dad.”

John frowned. “Well, today resting can include the couch.”

“And the TV?” Dean perked up.

“And the TV.” He frowned at Sam. “Get your stuff,” he said impatiently.

He shepherded Sam to the car. At least it hadn’t snowed, so John didn’t have much to clean off before driving Sam to school.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Sam.”

“Will you still drive us after Dean’s better?”

John sucked his teeth. “Well, tomorrow, anyway. Then we’ll see—got a whole weekend to get through.”

“Oh.”

John pulled up and set the brake, flipped on his hazard lights, and climbed out as Sam two-handed the back door and slid onto his feet.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked him sharply, seeing him come around the car.

“Coming in with you for a minute.”

Sam halted. “Why?” he demanded.

John cocked his head at his son. “I gotta explain myself to you now, Sam? Come on.” He strode away toward the door, turning after the second step to make sure Sam had fallen in behind him. Sam ran forward to catch up and John held the door for them both. When they came into the hallway, John stopped. The current of children parted around him. Sam stopped, too, looking up at him for clarification. 

“Go on to your class, Sam,” John ordered. “I’ll see you after school.”

Sam didn’t move. He looked up at John with an open mouth, between bewilderment and anxiety.

“Problem?” John growled. Dean wouldn’t have given him this much trouble. Dean wouldn’t have given him hardly any trouble. Leave it to Sam to turn a simple instruction into a scene. John didn’t have the time for scenes today, or the patience for them any day. He had to find the teacher responsible for the pageant quickly and get going if he was going. If Dean was feeling better, perhaps John could keep his shift and then interview some of his suspects while he was out there, before someone else got hurt.

“M’I in trouble?” Sam squeaked.

John looked heavenward, sighing. “Only if you don’t do as you’re told. Go to class.”

Sam’s eyes dropped and his cheeks flushed. “Okay,” he said sadly.

“Good,” John said. He clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder manfully. “I’ll see you later.”

Sam nodded once, his jaw set, as if John’s simple gesture had been all he’d needed to convince him John wasn’t angry with him. Sam moved toward the center stairwell and his cubbyhole outside room 224. John headed down the right-hand corridor to the school office.

The school secretary was a round-faced granny named Lorraine Sanders. He’d spoken with her a couple times while enrolling Sam, but she had already begun to blend in his mind with the other school secretaries, homeroom teachers, after school counselors, nurses, coaches, and librarians who’d come in and out of the boys’ lives. He suspected that she felt the same and would hardly remember one parent among the thousands she must have met in her 25-year history with the school.

“Mr. Winchester!” she greeted him brightly, to his surprise, when he walked in the door. “What can I do for you? Sam’s teachers all say he’s doing splendidly.”

“Good to hear,” John said distractedly. “Mrs. Sanders—”

“Lorraine, please.”

“Lorraine, I wonder if you could tell me where to find the teacher in charge of the…uh, the pageant? I’m not sure if it’s just for the 2nd grade or for the whole—”

“Oh, the whole school’s involved, but each class has its own contribution. Let’s see…the 2nd grade is presenting traditions from central Europe, I think—we have each class studying a different culture—” She consulted a mimeographed list. “Yes, Germany, Scandinavia, Hungary, etc.”

“And who’s in charge?” John repeated. _O Tannenbaum_ , he thought.

“That would be Miss Johnson. She’s in room 305. But homeroom starts in five minutes. Perhaps you’d like to call her later instead?”

“No, I’ll be quick,” John said, already backing away from the counter in front of Lorraine’s desk.

“Oh, dear, is there a problem?” Lorraine asked, but John was halfway out the door and didn’t answer.

He took the stairs at a jog, pleased that even with all the driving he’d been doing he wasn’t as out of breath as he’d feared. _Time to get back to running—boys, too_ , he thought ruefully. Room 305 was conveniently located just above the school office and just across from the right-wing stairwell. The door was still open. John could see a number of children Sam’s age goofing around inside. 

He knocked on the open door and Miss Johnson looked up blankly. She was pretty in a young way, looking like she’d just stepped out of a copy of _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm_ or something: long hair, long sleeves, long skirt. John guessed she was perhaps 24, 25 years old. Not yet acquainted with life’s harder knocks. She had brown hair, which she’d put into a complicated clip at the back, leaving her open, heart-shaped face unobstructed. She didn’t wear glasses, so there was nothing but a layer of ice blue eyeshadow between her eyes and the world.

“Yes?” she said expectantly.

“Miss Johnson, my name’s John Winchester. I’d—”

Miss Johnson dropped her clipboard. “Oh!” she cried in dismay.

“Here.” John stepped forward and rescued the clipboard and its attendance sheet. 

“Thank you,” she said, still looking pale. “Mr. Winchester, I’m so sorry—I honestly didn’t know. I hope everything’s straightened out now, though?” She spoke very quickly, like one aware that she’d screwed up.

“Well, about that…could we step outside?”

Miss Johnson swallowed nervously. “I only have a minute….”

“This shouldn’t take long.” 

They came out in the hallway. A row of cubbyholes stood along the corridor walls, and above and around them there were bulletin boards with colorful paper lining them. Kids’ pictures—holiday scenes, looked like—were tacked up here and there, along with snapshots of the children and their classrooms.

“Sam says he’s not in the pageant,” John told her pointedly.

“Well…yes, that’s right. So I hope there’s no problem,” Miss Johnson said.

John quirked an eyebrow. He tried a different tactic. “Look, I know it’s tough when kids come in during the middle of term, but—”

“Mr. Winchester,” Miss Johnson said firmly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I really need to begin homeroom.”

“The bell hasn’t—” It rang, cutting him off.

“And forgive me, but I don’t appreciate you coming here to take me to task just before I have to teach 30 overactive children, when I’ve already apologized and done what I could to correct the mistake.”

“What—” John began to ask.

“Look, I realize that like a lot of parents, you may not have time to come back later, and believe me, a lot of parents wouldn’t care enough to come in person, but if you really feel you need to take this matter any further, I have to insist that you schedule a conference with me. I’m available after the rehearsal, I can talk with you by phone, I’ll even be around over the weekend, if that’s more convenient.”

John tried to reconcile her attitude with the conversation he’d intended to have. “Hang on just one second,” he said, holding up one hand. Either she was seriously confused, or she had one hell of a defense mechanism. “Miss Johnson, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been teaching?”

Her eyes widened in distress. For a horrible moment, John thought she was going to burst into tears. Thankfully, she held it together, opting for indignation over crying. “Mr. Winchester. I assure you, my qualifications have nothing to do with this incident. It was an oversight—an omission in Sam’s records. That’s all. Please, I have to go in to my class now.” She yanked open the door and stepped across the threshold, as if the invisible division protected her from him as reliably as a salt line. “Please feel free to call and make an appointment if you still need to discuss it,” she offered stiffly. Then she shut the door, leaving John alone and very perplexed in the brightly decorated hallway.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean assured him he’d be fine alone, and since he hadn’t lost his breakfast like his last three meals, John acquiesced and rushed to make his Macy’s shift at 9:00. He planned to check in at the Workshop to make sure he was clear for Saturday’s gig, and to look around, maybe interview some of the people he’d profiled the night before. 

Of all the employees at the Workshop, there were three whose ages fit Jane Kimmel’s description and another two who John thought could be the culprit. As to what kind of culprit, he still hadn’t ruled out some kind of trickster or possessed object, but his money was on ghost. Nine times out of ten in this calling, he found, the answer was restless spirit. 

He got through four hours of Santahood fairly unscathed. Most schools were still in session, so the only kids around during the morning on a Thursday were either very small, propelled around in their strollers by their mothers, or went to one of the handful of private schools already on break. One of the inner city schools actually brought a busload of kids in as a field trip, but otherwise it was quiet. When his shift was over, he changed into mufti and strolled down to the North Pole for a look. It was quiet there, too, so John went on to the manager’s office and knocked.

“Yeah,” the voice on the other side of the door called.

“Mr. Olohan?” John said into the door. “It’s John Winchester. I thought it might be a good idea to look around before Saturday. Figure it’ll be crowded and I don’t want any kids to figure out that Santa doesn’t know where he keeps his reindeer.”

The door opened. Lyle let go of the knob and walked back to his desk, looking as if he hadn’t slept. “Winchester? Oh, yeah—I was gonna call you anyway to give you shift assignments up to Christmas.”

“Right.”

Lyle pawed through an In-tray and produced a dot matrix-printed calendar page. He handed it over. “Gonna get busy over there soon.”

“I’ll have to leave before then; pick up my kid at school.” _And try again to have a reasoned conversation with that excitable teacher of his_ , John added to himself. 

Lyle grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he copied out his shifts, John asked casually, “Rough night?”

Lyle lit up a cigarette. “You don’t even know. The cops are keeping it quiet. Don’t want to put a damper on the holiday traffic.”

“What? Keeping what quiet?” 

“We had another…incident last night. The company, the cops, they don’t want me to tell anyone, but I figure…I gotta be straight with my employees. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair not to give you a chance to back out if you want.”

“Why would I do that?” John prompted, head cocked.

“Because…last night, Jake Tarlin was killed.”

“Killed?” John repeated. The name meant nothing, but still: Killed. _Fuck_.

“Yeah. Accidental death, the coroner called it. Happened late last night; we were here for hours to get it cleaned up before the mall opened at eight.”

“What happened—or do you know yet?”

“Oh, we know,” Lyle dragged on his smoke, played nervously with his lighter. “Jake was one of our electricians. He came in after hours to fix one of the animatronic displays: a skater that got caught on her track. There must have been a short or something. Security guard didn’t see it on camera, I don’t know why; they found him on their walkthrough around 1:00, and by then, he was gone.”

“Damn. I’m sorry,” John said sincerely. “How’s the guard doing?”

“Jerry? He’s shook up—can’t blame him. The mall gave him the night off tonight, and I can’t blame them, either.”

“Jerry…that would be Jerry Haskins?” John made up a name the spot.

“No…Jerry North. I don’t know a Jerry Haskins—does he work for Macy’s?”

“Uh, I guess.” John smiled sheepishly. “Well, like you said, it was an accident.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me which skater—I’ll be sure to avoid it,” John said with a macabre grimace.

“Hell, you and everyone else. Now Gina’s on the phone asking me if I’ve heard a rumor we’re cursed. Or haunted, or something. I mean, shit. And no one will come out and fix the damn thing—too shook up about Jake, worried they’ll get a fatal zap.”

“Hm. Well, I’m not superstitious. Electronics aren’t my thing. I’m more of a mechanic. But maybe I could take a look at it.”

“Listen, I appreciate the offer, but the unions in this county will drive me crazy. Anyway, I’ll walk you down there so no one thinks you’re a pervert.”

“Thanks. Could I use your phone for a brief call, before we go?” John asked.

“There’s one in the outer office,” Lyle volunteered.

“Give me a minute, then,” John said. He went out to the desk set up outside Lyle’s office. John guessed there was ordinarily a secretary at the station. He looked up the number, dialed, let it ring once, and then pressed down on the cradle. He dialed a second time and let it ring.

“Dad?”

“Hey, tiger. How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” Dean said. He still sounded chesty and a little stuffed up. John could hear the television in the background.

“Eat anything?”

“Made some chicken and stars. So far so good.”

“Good. Can you hang in there until I get back with Sammy?”

“I’m okay, Dad. Really.”

“Don’t push it, dude. I want you to rest so you can get back to school tomorrow.” He felt, almost more than heard, Dean’s groan. “Yeah, I know, buddy, but if you’re fine, then you gotta go back.”

Dean coughed. “Uh…I think—”cough—“I think I’m having a relapse….”

John laughed. “Nice try. Now I know you’re feeling better. I’ll be home in a couple hours.” He hung up and knocked on Lyle’s door to let him know he was ready to go.

Lyle took him first to the mall services area adjacent to his office where the punch clock and locker rooms were. “You get five minutes from when you punch in to sign in at the Kitchen,” Lyle explained, “And same in reverse.” 

Next, they walked to the Kitchen itself, where Lyle introduced him to a teenaged boy with mild acne. “Simon, this is John. He’s starting as Santa in a couple days.”

“Barely two weeks out—that’s cutting it close to Christmas, Mr. O?”

“He’s on loan; been working at Macy’s.”

“Ah. Ready for the bigtime, then?” Simon grinned, holding out his hand for a handshake.

“Well, at least for the freak show,” John answered, clasping the kid’s hand firmly. 

Simon laughed. “Keep that sense of humor—you’ll need it. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

Simon was a senior in high school, John learned, planning to go to Northwestern or Notre Dame if accepted, state school if not. He introduced John to another boy in his senior year, a young brunette with a two-year-old daughter and a husband in the service, and Ellie, a blonde sophomore at UM. In a clear effort to impress Ellie, Simon made sure to mention that Lyle had specifically asked him to show John the ropes. 

“That’s because you scare the kids, Simon,” Ellie told him, “so what else are you good for?” She got up from the break table in Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen and threw out her Styrofoam salad bowl.

“She…she can’t get enough of me,” Simon said to John apologetically.

“So I see,” John commented. Ellie was one of his three. 

The kitchen door opened again and another young lady came in. She was also blonde, but on closer inspection John saw she wasn’t a coed—more like in her late 20’s. Still, from a distance, and to a casual observer, she could have been the person Jane saw. Simon introduced her as Kate Pasternak—someone he’d left off his short list. John realized he might have more interviewing to do than he thought at first. A lot more.

“So, Kate, is this your first year doing this? Forgive me, but it seems more the college student gig.”

She smiled. “I’m a grad student, so basically the same thing. But no, actually, this is my first season. You want to talk to a veteran, that would be Stacy.”

“Stacy?” He’d seen the name, but didn’t remember anything about her.

“Stacy Lefford. She usually works the end of the line, either talking to the kids ahead of their Santa visit or getting them their candy afterwards. She’s really good.”

“Natural saleswoman?”

“Hardly. I think she wants to be a pediatrician. Me, I’m doing my dissertation on seasonal labor practices and my advisor and I feel strongly about first-hand fieldwork.”

“Oh? And what have you learned so far?”

“Retail’s way worse than landscaping.”

John laughed. “How about the quality of this operation?”

“Well, Lyle’s good, as far as managers go.” She crossed to a mini-fridge and pulled out a Tupperware container. “And sometimes it’s really cool to see a kid light up when he gets to meet ‘Santa.’ But mostly? Customers of any kind suck.”

“From what I hear, customers around here have a chance of getting hurt.”

She frowned. “Hey, Simon, will you go back out and give Doris a break? I think she’s about to tell some unlucky, innocent kid he’s getting coal this year.”

Simon looked a little upset at being sent away so obviously, but John could see that it also occurred to him that he could talk to Ellie again if he left.

“You okay here, John?” he asked. Whether he was hoping to be kept or cut loose, John couldn’t say.

“Fine, son, go on.” Thus twice dismissed, Simon walked out. The bells on his elf suit jingled lightly as he moved.

John watched Kate expectantly. She popped the top off her container and put it into the microwave. Once she’d programmed it, she drew a deep breath and launched into her next statement: “I figured it was only a matter of time before they assigned someone here.”

“Who?”

“The cops. Or the company. What are you, a detective? An agent? Is Lyle finally taking this seriously?”

“Sweetheart, I’m just curious what I’m getting into. It’s hard to ignore the rash of accidents this place has been having.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I think if the cops aren’t going to detail someone to this case, Lyle ought to. And he did, didn’t he?” The microwave beeped; she checked her dish and put it back in to cook more. “Stacy and I have been talking about how long it would take. Okay, I get it, you’re undercover, but I can help. I can keep a secret.”

John’s opinion on that—and her poker face—was decidedly uncomplimentary. But he said nothing. It could be a trick, if Kate were tied up somehow with the problem. On the other hand, when the universe handed over a giant, steaming platter of intel, it was worse than stupid not to look it over.

“Honey, you’ve got an overactive imagination. I’m not a cop. The incidents have been a run of bad luck. Nothing the FBI would be interested in, whether you think Roswell was real or not.”

She crossed her arms, proffering a look that rivaled Sammy’s best pre-tantrum bitch imitation. 

“Look, I bet if you think about it, every one of these incidents can be explained by something. No conspiracies need apply. Take the thing that happened two days ago—that woman who broke her leg? Were you here then?”

“Yes…I was working.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait—you were there, too!”

“Yeah, I dropped by. I’d just been hired by Lyle and I walked past on my way to my other job,” John admitted, glad to inject a little truth for effect. 

“Two retail jobs during the holidays? Are you some kind of masochist?”

John smiled wryly. “So what did you see that day?” he prompted. 

The microwave signaled its completion again. She turned and opened the door, letting the steam clear. The smell of leftover lasagna filled the room. “Well…I was working the line over by the reindeer. It was busy and there was one kid who wouldn’t smile no matter what the photographer did. It was holding things up a lot. I was trying to help keep the line occupied. Cindy was trying to help the photographer with the kid. That’s Stacy’s usual job, but she was off that day. Cindy’s not as good at it. Neither’s poor Doris. And Bob, of course—he was playing Santa that afternoon.” She pulled the dish out with her fingertips and let it land lightly on the countertop. “I heard the scream first, then turned and saw that the end of the line was missing, like everyone had knelt or sat down. Then the little kid on Bob’s lap really started crying. He was screaming for his mom. Bob put him down and the little boy ran toward the crowd, and that’s when I saw that his mother was the person who’d fallen. Cindy came over with him and I followed her. You were kneeling over her—I thought you were her husband, actually.”

John nodded. “So you didn’t actually see it happen?”

“No…did you?”

“And just before it happened, you hadn’t….taken a short cut through the display or anything?”

“Nope, I’d been glued to my station. _Did_ you see what happened?”

“I’d just gotten up to leave,” John admitted. “But I talked to the woman. She was distracted, tripped on the ropes. That’s all.” He pushed to his feet. “Well, I gotta go or I’ll be late for my next appointment. Nice to meet you.”

“See you,” she said, sitting down over her micro-meal. She was still clearly suspicious, but John couldn’t help that now. “Hey, John?” she called before he’d stepped through the door.

“Yes?”

“I still say your secret’s safe with me. And if there’s anyone to suspect of playing pranks around here, it’s Andy Miller.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s one of the elves on the line at the entrance. Usually works evenings.”

“Why’s that?” John asked.

“He’s a frat brother down in Ann Arbor—has a really warped sense of humor. Plus? He’s running a betting pool for the custodians on when the next injury will hit.”

John let the door close while still on Kate’s side of it. He decided to let her think what she thought. It might even help, if he other employees decided he was investigating. He was sure Kate would gossip. At best, it’d make people freer with their information. At worst, it might flush the creature causing the disturbances. “Did Lyle tell you about the latest accident?”

“That poor electrician? Yeah. He made an announcement before the shift started. And the little prick still doesn’t plan to shut his sideline business down.”

“Hm. Good to know.” John made his exit. 

~*~

Truth be told, John had about ten minutes before he absolutely had to leave, but between anticipating cleaning off the car and wanting to catch Miss Fly-off-the-handle Johnson, he didn’t want to be late. He parked in the lot behind Jerome Elementary and came through the rear entrance just as the final bell rang. He stopped on the second floor to collect Sam, or at least stop him from waiting at the front. He’d send him down the rear stairs to wait while John talked to the teacher.

But when he waded through the shallow tide of children grabbing their possessions, he didn’t see Sam among them. He went on to room 224, Sam’s classroom. Maybe he’d stayed behind—he had been known to volunteer to do small chores for teachers he liked. John couldn’t remember if Sam had said he liked this teacher or not. Though he usually didn’t flake out when he knew his father was picking him up; it was more of a complaint of Dean’s to not find Sam where Sam was supposed to be.

Sam was in his classroom, but to John’s surprise, he was hard at work at one of the easels around the edge of the room. Sam’s primary teacher was standing beside her desk. John recalled on seeing her that her name was Mrs. Farnsworth. An older woman was speaking to her in hushed tones. They looked up when John came in.

“Sam, move out, buddy,” John said, sharp enough to get his son’s attention, but not so harshly as to alarm the instructors.

“Mr. Winchester, what a coincidence,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.

“Mr. Winchester?” said the second woman. She was about ten years older, as well as stockier and taller than Mrs. Farnsworth. “We haven’t met. I’m Sylvia Penn, Sam’s art teacher.” Ms. Penn moved into Sam’s path to John.

“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

“May I speak to you for a moment?” She gestured outside to the hallway.

John looked at her for a few seconds, then beyond her to Sam. “Sammy?” he asked expectantly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” Sam said obstinately. His back was straight and he held his father’s eye.

John’s eyes flicked back to the art teacher. She bent her elbow and extended her forearm again, open palmed, in an insistent directive.

“Sit tight, Sammy,” John told Sam with a reassuring nod. He turned and let Ms. Penn follow him. When she came out, she held a piece of paper low against her torso. 

“What seems to be the problem?” John asked mildly, temper in check. Sam’s steady gaze was enough to tell him that Sam was telling the truth, as far as he was concerned. More than once with both boys, John had found that misunderstandings usually arose because his house rules weren’t shared by the average red-blooded American nuclear family. Whenever possible, he preferred to interrogate his sons before confronting their teachers. Then again, he thought ruefully, he thought he had got the story from Sam about the pageant, and clearly there was still some confusion with Miss Johnson. He braced himself for yet another adventure in parenting.

“It’s Sam’s art project.”

John had positioned himself facing the classroom door, so that he could see through the lined glass window into the room. He looked at Sam, who stood at parade rest, in what looked like a silent battle of wills with Mrs. Farnsworth, while he waited patiently for his father to tell his teacher to stick it. _Yeah,_ he thought, _this is going to be good._

“Sam did his homework last night. I saw him do it. Didn’t he turn it in?”

“He did,” she admitted uncomfortably.

“Well, then—”

“It was unacceptable.”

John narrowed his eyes. “I don’t un—”

“Mr. Winchester, did you…review Sam’s picture?”

John crossed his arms. “You asked him for a picture; he gave you a picture. He’s seven, Ms. Penn—how challenging was this assignment, if he couldn’t execute it within your parameters?”

“Perhaps it’ll make more sense if you see it for yourself.” 

Ms. Penn held out the paper for John. He snatched it and flipped it over. He saw the car first, dominating the left side of the page…then Dean and Sam’s names on top and two figures below…and started laughing. “Something you do…in the snow!” He rocked on his heels, laughing heartily. “Ms. Penn…I think…heh…you got what…you asked for.”

“This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Winchester.”

“Oh, honey, I disagree. That’s exactly what it is. Come on, how many times have you given this particular assignment?”

“Many.” Since she looked like she could have been teaching when Nixon was in, he believed her.

“And you’ve never had another kid come up with something like this before?” John sighed, laughter back under control, though he was still grinning widely. “He’s a seven-year-old boy, Ms Penn, with a brother four years older than he is. This? This is right up there with Don’t Eat Yellow Snow.”

Ms. Penn finally cracked something like a smile, but she covered it up quickly. “Just what would make Sam think this is a regular occurrence, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a regular occurrence. But.” John studied the drawing again. He rubbed his chin. “We…take road trips quite a lot. You know how boys are. Once in a while it’s a long way before there’s a good rest stop.” He delivered the explanation with measured calm; the last thing he needed was any suspicion about the Winchester household. “Anyway, I don’t think the instructions said it had to be a common activity.” He gave her a half-smile again.

“Be that as it may, the children’s pictures were to be used as decorations for our end-of-term pageant, so you can see that it just won’t do.”

That turned John’s smile upside-down. The pageant and the unfinished conversation with Miss Johnson was why he’d come in this afternoon, but he wasn’t about to let Ms. Penn know that he had yet another unscheduled conference to attend today. “Okay. Other than redrawing the picture is there any disciplinary issue here?”

Ms. Penn sighed. “His assignment wasn’t completed for class. His replacement will be considered late and it’s ineligible for a hundred percent mark.”

“His assignment _was_ completed; you weren’t precise in your directions.” Her eyes flashed for a second but dropped when she saw John’s glare. “Face it, Ms. Penn, you opened the door on this one. All right—” he held up a capitulating palm—“he should draw another picture with something more appropriate. But the original drawing met the requested criteria and was turned in on time—so this second drawing counts as extra credit, not a makeup assignment. Deal?”

Ms. Penn looked like she’d rather suck a lemon. “Fine,” she said.

“And his first assignment gets full marks,” John added. “Creativity if nothing else.” He winked. 

Ms. Penn finally smiled. “All right—just give his homework a once-over from now on, if he’s apt to use similar subject matter.”

“He’s seven,” John repeated with a snort. He stepped around her and went back inside. “Hey, Sammy,” he said gently.

“I didn’t do—”

“Easy, buddy,” John said, clapping Sam’s shoulder. “Your drawing’s just not the kind of thing Ms. Penn was expecting. You can draw her a new picture tonight—we’ll keep this one, okay?” 

“Yessir.”

John folded Sam’s original masterpiece and put it in his coat pocket. “Okay—you work on that and I’ll be back in a few minutes, dude.”

_One down, one to go,_ he thought.

But Miss Johnson’s classroom was locked. Biting back a curse, John headed back down to the second floor and cut up the middle hallway to the upper entrance to the auditorium. Sure enough, the pageant was in rehearsal, though it seemed that the kids up on stage were a bit older than Sam. He saw Miss Johnson down in front, sitting with two other teachers. He walked down from the top bleachers toward the stage. When he reached the row behind her seat, he turned into it and walked up to her. He cleared his throat to announce himself. “Miss Johnson?”

Even with his telegraphed approach, she jumped. “Mr. Winchester! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she said when she’d recovered. 

“I thought we could start over, maybe calmly this time,” John requested. “Do you have a minute?”

Miss Johnson looked at her companions. “If I’m not back in time, let the first graders go,” she told them, then rose and followed John out of the lower doors.

He squared off in front of her so that she couldn’t see into the auditorium. “Okay…so, I’m just going to pretend that we were in the Twilight Zone this morning, because I’m still a little confused. See, Sam never told me there was a holiday pageant.”

“Yes, I’m sure he didn’t, knowing how you’d feel about it.”

“Huh?”

“Well, how upset you’d be.”

“Up…set?” John frowned. Sam knew better than to joke or even hint at potentially dangerous domestic issues. 

“Well, that he was included. But as I thought I explained this morning, we corrected the error. Though I do wish you’d reconsider. I don’t mean to interfere or anything, Mr. Winchester, but…especially when students come in so late in a term, it’s so important that they interact with their classmates in all aspects of the program.” 

“So I’ve been told,” John agreed. “So then why—”

She drew an excited breath. “Perhaps you’d willing to see the section his class is presenting? You could determine for yourself whether it would pose a conflict of interest.”

It was one thing to sit through the efforts of four dozen seven- and eight-year-olds when one of them was his progeny; it was quite another matter to do it in order to evaluate their content and quality. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said blandly.

Miss Johnson’s face withered. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply…of course. I’m sorry—that was insensitive. Well, if I can’t convince you, then that’s that.” She smiled wanly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should get back in there. The children get so confused if we do things out of order.”

For the second time that day, John watched Miss Johnson walk away from him and felt as if he’d been boondoggled…and not by her.


	8. Chapter 8

John was relieved to see Dean looking—and feeling—more like himself, but he refused to order pizza. 

“Why not?” Dean asked.

“Because I don’t think it’s a good idea, Dean. Not when you’re just getting back on your feet. Pizza’s not the easiest thing for stomach trouble.”

“But I like pizza,” Dean protested.

John shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow—if you’re not wiped out by school.”

He bore Dean’s rolled eyes and subvocal groan with an eyeroll of his own. “How about eggs?” he offered.

“Fine,” Dean said in a way that meant pizza would have been ten times more preferable.

John went to his coat and pulled out the folded page bearing Sam’s “unacceptable” artwork. He brought it with him to the kitchen and tacked it on the front of the fridge before getting out the eggs and butter and bread for toast. 

He smiled every time he looked at it.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said as he served their meal. “Wanted to ask you. Miss Johnson. Is she…is she a little odd?”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Really odd, Dad,” he said earnestly. “I think she’s waiting for a call from the mothership.”

“Hm.”

“What’s up with Sam’s teacher?” Dean asked.

“She’s crazy,” Sam said, bugging his eyes out at Dean.

“Sam,” John said slowly. “You didn’t…give her the impression that you weren’t supposed to be in the show, did you?”

“Nope,” Sam said into his eggs. “Toldja, Dad, they asked an’ I said I din’t want to take other kids’ parts away from them.”

John studied his child. Twice he’d asked and twice Sam denied misleading his teacher. Though it seemed impossible they couldn’t find something for Sam to do, it sounded like she had left him out rather than create more work for herself. He shook his head and spread jam on his toast. Perhaps it was true and Miss Johnson really was from outer space.

After supper, he dug through the files again, pulling out Kate Pasternak’s and Andy Miller’s files, along with any other women under 40 who might turn out to be blond.

Once the boys were in bed, he fished out his long distance phone card and dialed a number. A smoky voice answered on the second ring.

“Harvelle’s Roadhouse.”

“Ellen?”

“John! How are you—where are you—Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. How’s Jo?”

“Following her daddy 24/7. Dean and Sam?”

“Fine. If you call being unable to stay out of trouble two days in a row fine. Listen, is Bill around?”

“He’s….” He heard the background noise of the jukebox increase as Ellen scanned her bar for her husband. “He’s shooting pool with Grady. Want me to get him, or care to give me a shot at whatever’s puzzling you?”

John chuckled. “That obvious?”

“Honey, you and half the hunters this side of the Mississip only call when you’ve got a problem you can’t solve by yourselves.” Though the words were long-suffering, John heard the affection underneath.

“Guilty. Lemme run it by you. Did you happen to catch anything about a series of accidents in Saginaw? Started around mid-November?”

“No, can’t say we did.”

“Started as what looked like harmless pranks, but they’ve been escalating and last night there was a fatality. My best bet is a spirit haunting the area, but there’re so many objects it could be cursing or possessing….”

“House have a history?”

“No—sorry, should have started with that—it’s not a house. It’s at the shopping mall.”

Ellen laughed. “Sorry—it’s not funny. But…John? Have you ever been inside a mall in your life?”

“More than I ever cared to, thanks. I have a possible lead on the thing, but…I dunno. I’m starting to think I need to go back to square one. Appreciate your opinion.”

“Sure thing, sweetie. Well, what have you done so far? If it’s a mall, what about security tapes?”

“Haven’t checked personally, but the manager says nothing showed up.”

“Nothing to him.”

“Yeah, I know. Witness a couple days ago said she saw a young blonde woman disappear into part of the display.”

“Well, that’s a pretty hot lead right there,” Ellen assured him. “Why don’t you give me your theory and then we’ll look at what doesn’t fit.”

John took a deep breath and blew it up toward his forehead. His head hurt. He sure as hell hoped Dean hadn’t passed on his flu over the past couple nights. “I’ve had so many theories on this one I’ve lost count. Okay. Theory one: Trickster. That’s still in the running—’cept the eyewitness saw a female.”

“Tricksters are usually male, but that don’t mean he can’t be conjuring a vision of a female,” Ellen agreed.

“Right. So, still possible. Theory two: cursed object. At first I thought maybe one of the larger decorations. But the manager says they’ve used this display for fifteen years and no similar problems.”

“Sure about that? The whole kit and caboodle? They have to have replaced _something_ —stands to reason.”

“Thought about that,” John said through a sigh. “Ornaments break and so on. But the scale here—and it’s not a pattern that repeats like a curse object. It’s too random. I don’t think it’s linked to a specific curse. Which leaves theory three: Ghost. But there’ve been no recent suspicious deaths apart from the fatality last night, and no EMF. And again, no repetitive method or pattern.”

“What sorts of things is it doing?”

“Tripping people, broken limbs, electrocutions. One girl fell off a ladder. Injuries caused by projectiles, weapons of opportunity.”

“Weapons of opportunity?”

“Trashcans, rope lines, ashtrays, ornaments….”

“John, where in the mall is all this?”

John grimaced. He’d been putting off this detail. “Yeah. It’s in their main…North Pole section. Where the mall Santa is.”

Ellen was a pro in every way except the one that would have had Bill punching John’s lights out for implying. She was cool as lemonade in summer in the most trying of circumstances. But her snort of laughter bubbled into a full-on giggle fit. John had laughed with Bill and Ellen many times—Ellen had a great, throaty, knowledgeable laugh—but the sound she made now was more suited to her five-year-old daughter than to the capable, confident woman John knew and respected. John held the receiver away from his eardrum until the decibel level came back to the ground floor.

“Done?”

“Oh…John…sorry, sweetie—I know, it’s a serious business. I just….” She giggled again—it was really unsettling—and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not going to ask about your cover. No, wait—yes, I am.”

John smiled despite the teasing, or perhaps because of it. “Dream on, lady.”

“Well, seriously, though—if it’s anything to do with St. Nick, then there’s a wealth of lore could be causing the issues. Krampus, Black Peter, even Hold Nikar, pagan god of midwinter—”

“Nah, it’s not sacrificial. Only the one fatality so far. No evidence of cannibalism.”

“Could be gearing up.”

“Doesn’t have the feel of anything pagan. Well, unless it’s a trickster.”

“Keep coming back to that.”

“Yeah.”

Ellen and John both thought for a minute. The jukebox paused as well, and as it loaded a new record, John heard the clink of the billiard balls amid the lower buzz of bar chatter. Then, as the music picked up again, Ellen said, “You said no patterns?”

“Mm…not really. Victims have all been in the Santa’s Workshop area. Only a few have been hurt after hours. Operates in day and night, but seems to be worse when it’s more crowded.”

“Okay, but even tricksters have a common denominator for their victims—something that marks them as legitimate targets. Maybe you need to find out more about the people who’ve been hurt.”

John pinched his nose. Of course he did. He’d even made those calls yesterday morning, and forgot to follow-up on them. He’d meant to catch up with Del Masters, too, but had forgotten that. No, not forgot—he’d been distracted with Dean being sick and Sammy’s issues at school, including his still-unresolved subterfuge. And now another person had died because he’d been so busy being a father the last couple days, he was only being half a hunter.

“John?”

“Yeah. Trying to—haven’t had much chance to follow up.”

“You okay? Don’t mind my saying, that’s kind of a priority on this kind of hunt.”

“Yep, sure is.”

“You feel all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s been busy over here.”

“You said the boys have been in trouble. Need backup so you can concentrate on them? I’m sure Bobby or Daniel—”

“No. It’s nearly Christmas. I’m not pulling anyone else in on this—”

“There’s two weeks yet—”

“And besides, it’s nothing I can’t handle, Ellen,” he continued more sharply.

“The job, or the boys?”

John sighed. “Both. Either.”

“Huh.” Amazing how Ellen could put both sympathy and skepticism into a syllable.

“Like I said, it’s been an interesting coupla days.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

John scrubbed his face. He opened his mouth to tell her no, and instead found himself spilling out the tale of all of Sam’s latest exploits—both the picture and the pageant, and John’s resulting flat-footed run-ins with Sam’s teachers. “I dunno, Ellen—he’s usually the one I _don’t_ have to worry about in school.”

“Where’s Dean in all this, then?”

“Dean’s had the flu. At least that part’s straightforward.”

“He okay?”

“Yeah, he’s on the mend. Probably go back to school tomorrow.”

“So, you think maybe Sam said something else to get out of his class play?”

“Not impossible.”

“Just unlikely.”

“It’s unlikely he’d lie to me about it.”

“Not even if he thought you’d be disappointed in him?”

John took that in silently. 

“John, you gotta admit that you don’t exactly present the most reputable example yourself. Boy gets ideas—”

“No. You know I keep him out of all that.”

“And he’s never heard you tell someone something he knows is a lie. You’ve never told him to lie for specific reasons. John, don’t you think it’s the most likely explanation?”

“I asked him point blank.”

“Now, John, it ain’t that simple and you know it.”

“Oh, you’re the expert on raising boys, now?”

“John Winchester, I swear, you are one of the most stubborn, ornery, infuriating men I’ve ever—”

“Thought you liked that in a man,” John said.

“Don’t push your luck,” Ellen shot back. Her words were a lot harsher than her tone, though.

Suddenly the phone clicked and the ambient noise increased, coupled with the fuzz on the line of someone grabbing the receiver away.

“Winchester—you harassing my wife again?”

“Not half as much as she’s harassing me, Harvelle.”

Bill’s laugh was just as full-throated as Ellen’s. “Now, in my experience, Ellen don’t give any man less’n he deserves. So what’ve you done, Winchester, to warrant a serving of her fresh-baked humble pie?”

“Shit, Harvelle, you got it all wrong. Ellen was just sweet-talkin’ me. Better watch it—next thing you know, she’ll want to hit the road with me instead of staying barefoot in your kitchen.”

“Barefoot?” Bill’s voice went up half an octave. “You just hope I don’t tell her you said that.” He sighed. “So what’s eating you, John?”

“Case is hard to pin down, but Ellen reminded me how to do the job.”

“You don’t often need reminding.”

“Known to happen, time to time.”

“Usually means you’re distracted. And a distracted hunter can become a dead one pretty damn quick.”

“I know that,” John said, fighting rancor.

“Just sayin’—you know you got two excellent reasons to make sure you come home at the end of the job.”

“I know that, too,” John said wearily.

“Aha. Sounds like that’s the distraction right there.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Huh.”

“That’s what Ellen said.”

Bill laughed again. “You are a stubborn cuss, aren’t you?”

“Ellen covered that, too. Takes one to know, Harvelle.”

“You finish up this hunt, why don’t you bring the boys here for Christmas?”

It was the same offer Bill or Ellen or both of them had been making for a few years now—pretty much since Jo’d begun walking. “No…thanks,” John told Bill, the note of weariness back in his voice again. “We’ll be fine. Well, you’re busy. I should let you get back. Tell Ellen thanks for…for the perspective.”

“Don’t be a stranger, John—and if we don’t see you, Happy New Year.”

“You, too.” He hung up and ran a hand through his hair. Unsolicited memories of past Christmases pushed into his mind. Last year’s Christmas in particular had been one of the best…and worst, since 1982, the year before Sam had been born. Sam’s first Christmas, of course, had been almost comical in its awfulness—nothing would ever come close in John’s estimation to how badly he’d let Dean down that year. John could recall some doozeys, like Alabama two years ago, when they’d had to leave their squat one step ahead of the law. He’d had to abandon the presents in his bedroom closet when they made a run for a backwoods cabin. The boys had had to make do with presents from the grocery store that year. The year before Dean’s ninth birthday, he’d spun out twice on the way back to Bobby’s and the boys. He’d barely made it in time, but getting home safely had made it one of the best years in his estimation. Of the six so far, last year’s had been as close to a perfect Christmas as it was possible to get, he figured. And while on the surface, that made it an excellent year for the boys, it left him feeling even more hollowed out and empty than ever. He’d been plagued with doubt and self-recrimination over the whole situation. Over Beverly.

Beverly Kirkland was the children’s librarian in the branch closest to the boys’ elementary school in Dublin, Ohio. She’d lost her husband two years previously, according to the gossipy landlady who lived in one of the four units of the apartment house John had found. His one-night chance encounter with Beverly somehow grew into something that had him accepting her invitation to let her give the Winchesters a proper Christmas, complete with waking up to presents under the tree, stockings by the fireplace, and a full dinner with all the trimmings.

The experience had been more than enough to convince John that Beverly was about as perfect as he could hope to find. And that as good as it was, it would never be good enough. It would never be right. All he could do that whole day was wish she were Mary come back to him.

Intellectually, John knew, Mary would have wanted him to move on, would not have begrudged him any measure of happiness. Knowing it, he tried not to begrudge himself, either, the few times someone had come along. But he’d always been careful to draw clear lines around himself and the boys, indelible and thick, like salt circles to protect him from losing sight of Mary, of his quest to avenge her and ensure that her soul—and his—could rest peacefully when he was done. Her death had almost killed him. Probably would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Dean and Sam. He feared letting anyone else become endangered, feared letting himself care as deeply about anyone else again.

There was one other factor, perhaps the simplest one of all: Mary’s ring was never coming off his finger. No matter what, when he came down to the choice, there really was no question. 

He also knew, no matter how close he got, eventually he’d be leaving, and the boys with him. And the last thing he wanted to do was break _their_ hearts. It was better to keep moving, not put down roots. Since he was sure of Dean again (and he had been, long before Christmas), they could pull up stakes safely.

And now they were back in the snow for another white Christmas. His hand hovered over the receiver, thinking that it wasn’t too late to call Ohio. John pushed himself to his feet to distance himself from the phone. Done was done, and no sense moving backward. Still, Bill’s offer rumbled around in his head, making him wonder if he should isolate the family so completely, especially in contrast to last year.

Maybe Bill was right. Maybe it would be better for the boys to surround them with some semblance of extended family during the holidays. The Christmas they’d spent with Bobby had been fun enough; Dean protested about Christmas with Jim Murphy but somehow he didn’t seem to mind so much when it came time to eat Mrs. Hildegaard’s stuffing. Sam would probably love having someone around littler than he was, and John could imagine little Jo would give Sammy a dose of his own medicine in the asking questions department. But the idea of forcing himself to be happy around so many other people made John want to hyperventilate. He simply couldn’t take that kind of pressure. His one postcard holiday in the last six years had only made him ache all the more desperately for Mary’s soothing, challenging, imperfect perfection once again. He’d rather spend Christmas with just the three of them, drinking in the boys’ infectious happiness like hot cider on a cold day, letting it remind him why he really hunted. Not just for her ghost, not solely in her memory, but to preserve her boys against all evils.

With that goal in mind, John told himself he’d wasted enough time on the case already. Innocent people were getting hurt—killed, now—because he’d been careless and stupid. It was time to make some serious progress and put this thing—be it trickster, poltergeist, or fuckin’ Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—to bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Dad drove them to school Friday morning, like he told Sammy he would. He dropped Sam off first, then drove the half-mile extra to Dean’s school. Dean kept insisting he could have walked, but privately he was happy to ride in the comfort and relative warmth of the Impala.

“No gym today, and no going outside for recess. Got your note?” John asked as they pulled up.

“Yup.” Dean slid to the side and opened his door.

“Hey, Dean!” someone yelled across the lot. Dean looked over toward the source and saw Mike hurtling toward him. Mike pulled up short of tackling him. He turned around. “Mom! C’mere! I want you to meet Dean.” 

Behind Mike was a woman who looked a lot younger than Dad. She had blonde hair cut short under a little fleece headband. She wore a baby pink ski jacket and bleached jeans tucked into puffy white boots. “Okay, Mike, I’m coming.” She walked over to the car, where Dad had seen her and was getting out.

“Hi, I’m Monica Stakowski.” She offered a hand encased in a lambswool glove, the kind that was suede on the outside with stripes of the wool showing at the seams.

“John Winchester.” Dad shook her hand gently and put his hand back in his pocket.

Mike jostled Dean with his elbow. “Sorry you’ve been sick.”

“Yeah.”

Mike bounced over to interrupt their parents. “Hey, Mom, I bet Dean hasn’t got anything yet, either. D’you think maybe he could come with us? Huh?”

His mother looked at him with an expression Dean thought meant, _Manners_. She smiled weakly at Dad. “Sorry. Mike’s a little excitable.”

“So I see.”

“And he hasn’t learned about saying, ‘Excuse me,’ either,” she continued, hands on Mike’s shoulders.

Mike blushed. “Sorry.”

Dad did not offer forgiveness. “I take it you’d like Dean to go on some sort of expedition?”

“Secret Santas,” Mike said by way of explanation.

Dad’s eyes slid to Dean’s face, requesting clarification. “Dean?”

“We drew names Tuesday, sir. The same day I got sick.”

“I see.” He held Dean’s gaze as if he expected more.

“We’re s’posed to exchange presents on the last day of school.”

“An’ there’s a ten dollar limit, an’ I thought maybe you’d let Dean come with me so we can get our gifts,” Mike finished, stepping further into Dad’s personal space.

Dean held his breath. Dad wasn’t used to other kids getting so close, or acting so…exuberant. Mike’s behavior was more like Sammy’s, and Dean knew from experience that Dad didn’t always respond well to a full blast of Sam’s enthusiasm—especially before a second cup of coffee.

But Dad must have been taking lessons or something, because he smiled. “Well, that’s a nice offer, Mike, but I’m not sure Dean’s feeling up to going….”

“I was planning to take Mike to the mall tomorrow,” Mrs. Stakowski said. “I’d be happy to bring Dean along. We shouldn’t be more than a couple hours.”

John shook his head. “Tomorrow…I’m sorry, Dean. I have to work.”

“Well, that’s perfect then,” Mike said while his mother continued to converse with Dad. “Isn’t it?”

Dean shook his head in an echo of his father’s motion. “No, Dad means I gotta stay home and watch Sammy.”

“Oh.” Mike tugged on his mother’s sleeve.

“Mike, honestly—” she began, but he pulled her down and whispered in her ear. “Oh.” She cocked her head at Dad. “I’d be happy to bring Dean’s brother along, too, if that’s okay.”

Dean could sense Dad’s reluctance in the way he put his hands on his hips and looked away. Dad watched a couple of cars pull in. Students jumped out and waved to their parents as the cars turned and drove away.

Mrs. Stakowski must have seen the danger, too, because she jumped in again. “Tell you what. I’ll be back to pick up Mike this afternoon—you can think about it and let me know tonight. If Dean’s not feeling well tomorrow, call us and we’ll reschedule.”

Dean noticed the subtle manipulation, the word “reschedule” like it was a done deal, just maybe put off by a little while. Mike beamed at Dean as if to congratulate them both on his mother’s brilliant ploy.

It wasn’t lost on Dad, either. He shook his head indulgently and then jerked it toward Dean to beckon him over. Dean left Mike’s side and stepped into the reach of Dad’s hand, which landed on his shoulder. Dad turned him a little and walked him away by a step to shield their conversation.

“Son, you want to go?” It was part verification, part surprise.

Dean shrugged. “Mike’s okay. And it’s not likely me and Sam will get much of a chance to go mallratting otherwise. I mean—” Dean looked up quickly, eyes wide—“Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean—”

“Okay.” Dean cut himself off when his father inhaled, barely saw his lips move, barely heard the soft rumble. It was more like he felt his father speak through the palm of his hand, vibrating directly into his shoulder.

“Okay…you’re not offended, or okay, I can go?”

Dad tried not to smile. “Both.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dad nodded, in one of those moments that Dean recognized meant he was convincing himself as much as reassuring Dean. “Yeah. It’ll be okay.” He turned back to Mrs. Stakowski. “It’s okay. We can work out the details this afternoon and confirm in the morning.”

“Great!” she said.

Mike was more demonstrative. He pumped his fist into the air. “All right!” he shouted, jumping over to Dean. He punched lightly at Dean’s arm. Dean brought his arm up to block, caught Mike’s wrist, and turned him around. Halfway through the motion he turned it into an awkward sort of hug combined with a pat on the back. He grinned at Mike. “Too slow,” he taunted, to make it seem like he’d planned the whole maneuver.

Mrs. Stakowski had said goodbye to Dad and now came over to Mike, so Dean looked up at his father and ducked his head respectfully. Dad nodded back. “Be good,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you later.” Dad touched his shoulder again and, with a nod to the Stakowskis, got back in the car. A moment later the engine snarled and Dad was pulling away.

“Have a good day, sweetie,” Mrs. Stakowski was saying to Mike. She tried to hug him.

“Mom!” Mike dodged her attempt. “Jeez, ’m too old for that stuff.” He looked at Dean pointedly.

“Oh, sorry, honey. Mustn’t embarrass you in front of Mr. Military, got it.” Mrs. Stakowski winked broadly. “S’matter, darling? Afraid Dean won’t want to come if he finds out—”

“Mom!”

“—You still sleep with a—”

“Mom!”

“—Teddy bear!” She giggled and smooshed his hat into his head. “Relax, honey, I’m your mother. It’s my job to give you psychological scars.”

“Ha-ha,” Mike said. He rolled his eyes at Dean. “We gotta go, Mom, or we’ll be late.”

“Okay. Bye, sweetie. Love you!”

Mike mumbled and waved, pushing Dean inside with him. “Sorry about that,” he said as they started shedding layers. “Mothers, y’know?”

“Uh…yeah,” Dean said uncomfortably.

“How old is your brother?”

“Seven and a half.”

“Half of what?” Mike grinned.

“Half girl, and all pain in my ass.”

They were still laughing when they got to Mrs. Fontana’s homeroom.

~*~

John took Ellen’s advice to heart and spent his day searching the county records to learn about the victims, starting with the most recent. Back in the apartment, he went through the news articles again, what few there were, for the names and found them in the phone book, called, tried to get answers about what had happened. Many were at work, but he left messages on answering machines with a dozen different aliases, claiming to be a reporter, a lawyer, an investigator—whatever came to his mind first.

About two p.m., between calls, his phone rang.

“Mr. McIntyre?” a man said after he answered.

“Yes,” John said.

“This is Del Masters. You called me a little while ago.”

“Yes,” John said more excitedly. He lunged for his notes. “Mr. Masters…I wanted to talk to you if you’d be willing, about the injuries you sustained on…on the night of December 9th?”

“You a cop?”

“I’m investigating the series of accidents, Mr. Masters. My…client thinks there may be a link between all the problems the mall has had this year.”

“Client? Like…lawsuit kind of client?”

John rolled his eyes. “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet, Mr. Masters.”

“Just sayin’, if there’s a suit, I’ll have to talk to my lawyer. I’m already looking into a personal injury case.”

John gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was this guy clamming up because he thought he could make a better buck somehow. He tried to play into the guy’s assumptions without confirming them, either. “As I said, we’re not sure there is any…action that can be taken along those lines,” John said. Once he got started, he found a rhythm. “Any information you provide would of course be subject to…to consideration along with my client’s potential claim. As you probably already know, conflict-of-interest only applies to criminal cases.” When he threw in the jargon, he was inordinately glad that Masters couldn’t see his face on the phone. Anyone looking at him at that moment would have recognized the universal expression of a man talking completely out of his ass.

“That a fact?” Masters sounded interested.

“Absolutely,” John assured him.

“Well,” Masters said, much friendlier. “What is it you wanted to know?”

John carried the phone to the kitchen bar, where he could write more easily. “Could you describe what happened—and please, pay particular attention to what you saw and experienced just before the incident—what were you doing?”

“Well, it was late. We’d just packed off the last of the brats for the night—you have any idea how many parents will keep their kids out past bedtime to see Santa? And how many of them give ’em sugar to keep ’em awake?”

“Yeah, I have a pretty good picture,” John said matter-of-factly. “But please, go on.”

“Right. Uh…well, anyway, I’d changed, but I left my lunch tote in the kitchen. So I went next door to the security office. Wade—he’s one of the night guards—told me to go on over and he’d radio Jerry to meet me there in a few minutes to let me in. I came out, sat on the throne to wait for Jerry to get there and open up. Tree was all lit up pretty. Without them ankle-biters underfoot, place ain’t that bad. I figured I’d smoke a quick one while I was waiting, y’know?”

“Cigarette?” John confirmed.

“…Yeah,” Masters said, in a way that suggested he’d have loved something stronger. “So. I got one out of my pack and pulled out my lighter. I must have been tired, because I dropped the lighter. Kinda flew out of my hands over near the tree. I went to get it…and—” He cut himself off with a sigh.

“What?”

“You swear you’re not a cop?”

“Yes.”

“But…what I tell you, I might wind up having to testify in court?”

“Only if it helps the case,” John told him. This lie was familiar and easy to tell. The hesitation pointed to the kind of thing he needed to hear. “But let us decide what’s pertinent, okay? Just tell me what happened next, and don’t worry about whether it leads to anything further or not.”

“If you say so…but I warn you, it’ll sound crazy.”

“That’s all right. What happened next?”

“I saw…well, I _thought_ I saw…this…woman.”

“Yes?” John leaned forward over the bar and his notes.

“She was…she appeared on the other side of the tree—I saw her through the branches, y’know?”

“Can you describe her?”

“Yeah…she was blonde, had this long, straight blonde hair. Young, I thought, thin and real beautiful.”

“Did you recognize her? She wasn’t a coworker?”

“No…I’d never seen her before. I think. Wait—there was another time I thought I saw her.”

“When was that?”

“Couple days earlier, there was this mother. So concerned for her precious baby to see Santa, right, she couldn’t be bothered to stay and watch the experience. Went to get a coffee or something while her little cherub was getting her picture taken. When she was done, we couldn’t find the mom. Stacy stood with the kid, about ready to call Mall Security and have ‘Rebecca’s mother’ paged. Then she showed up by the photography stands waving like a maniac. All of a sudden, I thought I saw a blonde standing next to Stacy, near the tree again.”

“Same girl?”

“It was only for a second, but…yeah, same one.”

“Did…uh, did Stacy see this person?”

“Dunno. You’d have to ask her. Have you met her?”

“Stacy? No.” He’d looked at her file, though, after Kate had mentioned her yesterday. She was 20 years old, a Junior in Chemistry at UM. She was one of several girls he’d been able to eliminate off the bat, since she’d helpfully checked off “African-American” on her employment forms.

“She’s great. Never seen her lose her cool with a single one of those hellions.”

“Mr. Masters, did anything strange happen that day? The first day you saw the blonde?”

“Hell, yeah, something else happened. Trash can fell over and rolled into the rope line, sent kids and moms scattering.”

“Hang on just one second, will you, please? Let me get that down.” John made a hasty scribble on his pages. “Okay, go on?”

“Well, that day, that was about it. A little havoc, people arguing about what order they’d been in. Took probably half an hour to straighten out—and from what I gathered, there were still squabbles about an hour later.”

“Any injuries on that day?”

“Not’s I know of. Just phantom trash cans rolling down the lane.”

“Okay. Thanks. Now, did you see this woman throughout any of that time—that half hour while people were getting reorganized? Was she still there?”

“Oh, I dunno. No, I don’t think so. I just noticed her standing by Stacy. Next time I looked up, she was gone.”

“Got it. So…back to the night of your injury. You said you were retrieving your lighter, and she appeared on the other side of the tree.”

“She was right there. Weirdest damn thing. I mean, there shouldn’t have been anyone there, except Jerry and Wade. It was late, you know?”

“Right. Was there anything…unusual about this girl, apart from her being where she shouldn’t have been?”

“Hell yeah—that’s my point. That’s why I know the cops wouldn’t believe me if I’d told them.”

“What’s that?”

“She was dressed funny, for one thing. She had on this skirt…I dunno, looked kinda like the St. Pauli girl. Only without the beer, more’s the pity. Or the rack.”

“Anything else?” John pressed.

“Yeah. She…she looked at me and she kinda chopped her hand…into the tree branch. And…I swear, McIntyre, I’m not a drinking man—and I’d been working all day. Maybe I was tired, my eyes playing tricks or something, but….”

“What did you see?”

“She touched the branch and…her hand went right into it. Through it. And then the tree sort of…shook. And half the ornaments went flying right at me. Mr. McIntyre, I was in ’Nam. I ducked down at the sight of all that shrapnel, but I was close to it. It still came at me fast enough to scrape my face up pretty good. I thought some of it got my eye for sure.”

“What happened next? Did the guard, Jerry—did he find you?”

“Yeah, about five minutes later. No sign of the girl. Half the tree was bare, glass everywhere.”

“Had the other guy…Wade, seen it on the monitors?”

“Naw. Jerry just said Wade had radioed him when he was on the other side of the mall. Bastard took his time letting me in to the kitchen. Had no idea I’d been attacked until he arrived. As for Wade…I dunno—probably went to the bathroom or something.”

“Mr. Masters, did anyone view the camera footage?”

“Lyle said he looked at it. I didn’t tell him about the girl—I was sure I’d been seeing things. I figured if she was on the tape, he’d have said something to someone.”

“Right. But you’d seen her at the other incident?”

“I’m sure I did. It was only for a second, though. She was there…then gone.”

“I see.”

“Is that important? Is she some kind of…eco-terrorist?”

“No, nothing like that,” John said with authority. “Mr. Masters…did she ever appear to…uh, to flicker? As if she’d been filmed and projected, and the film skipped?”

“You crazy? No. I tell you, if I really did see her, she was just there. Then not. And she made that glass fly at me.”

“Okay. Well, that’s all the questions I had for you. Thank you for your time.”

“I knew it. You think I’m nuts.”

“No, I don’t, Mr. Masters. It’s just that we’ll have to do a little more digging to find this…person.”

“So, if there’s really a case? Any chance I could see some compensation?”

“We’ll be in touch. Thanks.” He wrapped it up before Masters could push for more details about his potential financial gain.

He glanced at his watch. He still had time before picking up the boys. It seemed more and more likely he was dealing with a trickster of some kind and not a ghost after all. The obsession or connection to the huge plastic tree still didn’t make a whole lot of sense but the pranks and not understanding the line between harmless and deadly was classic trickster MO. As for choice of victims, Masters had mentioned eco-terrorism, and that triggered a thought. 

Moving to a more comfortable seat on the couch, he went back through his notes about the other attacks and accidents. Sure enough, each one did have something in common. Each victim had been smoking, or about to smoke, when the creature struck. It seemed like it had to be significant—it was the only link he could find so far. 

So maybe something local had a bee in its bonnet about pollution, or tobacco. He supposed it could be the spirit of someone who’d died from lung cancer, but the lack of flicker, the lack of EMF, and the fact that the apparition seemed to look alive argued strongly against spirit. 

Perhaps Ellen hadn’t been completely off-base about something pagan. He wasn’t sure about all the pre-Christian lore, but he was off Sunday and could check out midwinter traditions. He’d look at Native American traditions from the region, too.

He looked at the time again and swore. He’d gotten absorbed in his notes, distracted by his minor breakthrough, and was now late.

He grabbed his coat and keys, rushing out the door. When he clattered down the central flight of steps, down the three floors to the glass front door, he saw Dean and Sam heading toward him. He opened up for them.

“What the…?”

“Mrs. Stakowski gave us a ride,” Dean said. He turned and pointed behind him. Monica Stakowski was climbing out of a green ’85 Chrysler LeBaron. John went out to meet her.

“Dean was still waiting when I came for Mike, and I was running a little late. So we picked up Sam on the way,” she explained as she walked to the curb. 

“Thanks…I lost track of the time,” John said. “So…tomorrow.”

“Yeah. About 11:00?”

“I’ll be at work, but if you buzz the intercom, the boys can come down to you.” He pulled out his “reporter” notebook and jotted down the number for her, then took hers.

“If a woman answers with a heavy accent, that’s my mother,” Monica told him, swiping a lock of hair out of her eyes.

“Do you mind if I ask you a couple questions?”

She smiled. “Sure. How about a cup of coffee?”

John hesitated. He hadn’t really cleaned up any of his investigation—in fact, he’d have to sweep the living room before Sam could had a chance to look at the articles too closely. Plus, Monica had a look in her eye that made John nervous to accept anything that she might construe as interest, though the apartment’s “subsistence living” décor would probably have put the kibosh on that easily enough. “This won’t take long; it’s cold. I just want to know: do you smoke?”


	10. Chapter 10

Sam was happy that Dean could go back to school on Friday, but even happier that Dad still drove them and they didn’t have to walk like usual. Sam liked school. He liked it because it was easy—not just knowing the answers, but knowing how to interact with everyone around him, especially teachers. Usually, teachers loved Sam. Ms. Penn didn’t, though. Dad had liked his picture enough to put it on the fridge, but Ms. Penn had made Sam draw another picture. And Dad had told him to go ahead and do it. So he did, although he still wasn’t sure what was wrong with the first one.

And now, Ms. Penn’s problem must have rubbed off on Mrs. Farnsworth, because she called Sam up to her desk. Sam had never been called up to the desk in any of his classes. Dean got called up all the time, but Sam had noticed that almost every time Dad heard about it happening, he looked up towards the heavens and sighed and sounded very tired. Sam walked toward her desk at her summons, painfully aware of his classmates’ eyes on his back.

“Yes’m?” he asked.

“Sam, you’ll be going with Miss Nolan this morning.”

“Why?” Sam demanded, his face pulling forward in an angry pout. Miss Nolan was one of the assistant teachers, and she always talked to him like he was an idiot. It wasn’t fair that he had to go with her and miss class, all because of a stupid picture. He’d been doing so well, he was good at school, and now they were picking on him. If that was how it was for Dean, no wonder he didn’t like school as much as Sam did. Though Sam was rapidly revising his opinion on how much _he_ liked it, with stuff like this happening.

“Miss Johnson explained that she discovered your records were incomplete. It’s time for music, and since you aren’t in the pageant and today’s assembly would conflict with your religious beliefs, you will stay here with me while the others go to the music room and then Assembly.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. As far as reasons to be called up went, getting out of music wasn’t a bad one. He didn’t know what they were doing at Assembly, but it was probably something pretty dumb.

Miss Nolan took him to her little room off the library. She gave Sam some writing to do and extra reading. She worked at her desk silently, ignoring Sam. Sam wrote his words and read his book.

“Miz Nolan?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“I finished this. C’n I have another?”

“‘May I have another?’ Sam.”

“May I,” Sam mumbled.

“You _may_ pick out another book from the shelf. _Can_ you do that by yourself, or shall I help you?”

Sam gave her a sidelong glance. He went to the shelf and ran a finger across the spines. Reading by himself was okay, but he did that a lot in the car, or when Dean didn’t want to play with him. It was boring to read when he was supposed to be learning. 

“Miz Nolan?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“How long is music class?”

“Forty minutes, the same as any other lesson.”

“And how long is Assembly?”

“An hour. Pick out your book and read it here in the chair.”

Sam picked out three.

When she brought Sam back to the classroom, the others were all excited and chattering. “You missed it, Sam!” Kris Melrose told him as he crossed to his desk, which was next to Sam’s. “It was awesome.”

“Music?” Sam asked.

“No, Assembly,” Kris replied. “They showed _The Grinch_ and _Charlie Brown Christmas_. Then they passed out little candy canes.”

“Who did?” Sam’s eyes went wide with indignation.

“The Seniors. They brought them from the High School. It’s like a…program.”

“What kinda program?”

“I dunno, like…Big Brothers and Sisters. They come here and do stuff with us. It’s s’posed ta be like a student teacher thing.”

“They gave you candy?” Sam asked glumly.

“Yeah, and we watched _cartoons_!”

“Settle down, everyone!” Mrs. Farnsworth demanded.

Sam crossed his arms and kicked the desk in front of him. He’d missed the cartoons and the candy, all because he was supposed to be a Jovah’s Witness. Or a Jonah’s Witness. He couldn’t remember which it was, and that, he realized, might be a problem in itself. And if being one meant missing the fun stuff as well as the lame stuff, maybe Dean’s lie wasn’t so great.

Mrs. Farnsworth eventually got them settled down enough to work on addition and subtraction. Sam counted his apples and took away his lemons mechanically. Math was boring, too, but it was pretty easy.

PhysEd was okay. They got to go to the indoor gym and play kickball and tag. Sam did pretty well, even if he did always get picked last. He was faster than his baby-fat made him look. Stronger, too, because Dad made them run and train so much. He’d asked Dean why they did all that, when none of the other kids had to do pushups and sit-ups or got dropped on the side of the road two miles from the nearest rest stop and told to run the rest of the way. None of the other kids knew the difference between a roundhouse and a hook, while Sam wasn’t sure about the difference between a curve and a knuckleball. Dean told him it was because their dad was smarter than other kids’ parents.

Sam wasn’t so sure about that. Sure, Dad was a really smart guy; he knew about guns and tactics and stuff. He was pretty cool, mostly, since he wasn’t too strict about what they ate or bedtimes, and he was teaching them to fight. But some of the other things Dad did seemed pretty dumb. Like moving them around all the time. That was dumb. Sam had spent half of first grade in one place, but then he had three different schools between Dean’s birthday and the end of the school year. It was dumb to have to keep getting to know new people and make new friends.

And that was another dumb thing: Sam couldn’t have any of his friends over. When he had any, which wasn’t often. Dean said it was because his friends might blab to their parents and then the parent might report Dad because he had to go away so much and because the places where they lived sometimes weren’t so nice. At least this place had a TV. The cabin where they’d spent half the summer didn’t even have electricity. Sam couldn’t figure out why Dad didn’t just find nicer places to stay. 

As to why Dad went away so much, that was another burning question, but one that was sure to make Dean pissed if asked. Sam wasn’t supposed to say pissed, but he didn’t care. Thinking wasn’t saying. And it was true. Dean told him Dad was a traveling salesman. Sam didn’t believe him, but Dean’s answer made it clear that Sam couldn’t ask. Sam couldn’t ask about a lot of things. Well, he could _ask_ , but it made Dean act like a bitch. Sam wasn’t supposed to say that, either, but Dean sure could be bitchy. He’d get bitchy if anyone even just suggested that he was bitchy in the first place. Dean called Sam the girl, but Dean was just as much of one in the way he got pissy and bitchy and didn’t answer Sam’s very reasonable questions, like where Dad went, and why, or anything about Mom. Lately, anyway. Dean used to talk about Mom now and then. When he knew Dad wouldn’t hear him. Sam had figured out that talking about Mom hurt Dean, hurt Dad. Made them sad. So Sam tried to respect that and not ask. But it was hard. There were so many things he wanted to know.

Dad kept secrets. Secrets in his room, secrets in that book, his bag, a secret life. Sometimes, Sam feared that Dad had another family somewhere, like on the programs that came on TV when they got home from school: **Man has Three Wives in Different States.** But on the programs, the Moms were all alive. They’d bring out the wives and everyone would yell and throw chairs, and Dean would laugh and point at the screen. Maybe Dad had planned for them to stay with their mom, and her dying screwed everything up.

It didn’t make a lot of sense, but it made just as much sense as any other dumb story Dean had ever made up to tell him about Dad. 

“Sam?” 

“Huh?” Sam looked up at his gym teacher. The man’s whistle hovered just above Sam’s eye-level.

“That was quite a kick, Sam.” He pointed to the far side of the gym. The kickball was rolling along the wall.

“Yes, sir, I guess so.”

“Got something on your mind?”

“No, sir.” Sam blinked innocently.

“If you say so.” He blew his whistle. “Okay! Everybody go get changed.”

Sam trotted off with the others.

There was more reading after gym. Mrs. Peabody came in to give them their writing homework. Sam folded up his page of words (they all started with W) and put it in his notebook. Then Mrs. Farnsworth let them go to the back of the room for what she called “structured play.”

This was good, because Sam didn’t have to worry about paying attention during this part of the day. It also gave him another shot at something he’d tried yesterday—finding someone who could help him get to the mall. He’d figured that with Dean not feeling well and Dad being…well, Dad, and all the stuff about Santa still up in the air, he’d have to field this one on his own. So he’d begun asking his classmates if they knew where the mall was or how to get there.

“My parents take us,” was the usual answer.

“Well, are they taking you sometime soon? Before Christmas?” Sam asked.

“I dunno.” That was usually the answer, too.

Dean was right about one thing: seven-year-olds were dumb.

“Hey, Sam,” a squeaky voice said behind him. He recognized it right away and turned.

“Hey, Sally.”

“Wanna play tea party?” She pointed to a little table with a couple other girls.

“No.” Sally Dolin wanted to be Sam’s girlfriend, but Sam thought girls were icky. Dean didn’t like girls _at all_ ; he always called Sam a girl when he was mad at him.

“Jenner’s playing with the trucks. Wanna play construction?” she offered, pointing in the other direction to their classmate.

“Okay.” Sam said. He still didn’t want to be Sally’s boyfriend, but at least construction was a boy-game. And maybe Jenner knew something about the mall. Kris Melrose had told him about going, but didn’t know how to get there, and since he’d been, his parents were unlikely to return before Christmas.

“Sam wants to play too, Jenner,” Sally said, bringing Sam over to a section of rug decorated like tiny roads and neighborhoods. Jenner scowled up at them.

“You can use anything but the cement truck,” he proclaimed. He pointed to an assortment of Fisher-Price vehicles.

“I want the fire truck,” Sam said.

“I want the Cadillac,” said Sally.

They played for a little while. Sam got an idea. He drove his fire truck to the edge of the carpet and right off it.

“You can’t leave the town!” Jenner screeched.

“It’s okay, it’s a _regional_ fire truck,” Sam explained. “It’s going to the mall.”

“There’s no mall,” Jenner scoffed.

“Sure there is,” Sam said. “It’s off the edge of the map ’cause it’s…near the North Pole.”

“Where Santa lives?” Sally asked.

“Yes, exactly!” 

“Santa’s not real,” Jenner said, “And even if he was, there’s no malls at the North Pole.”

“Nu-uh, Santa lives at the mall, though,” Sally told them both. “I seen him.”

“You saw a guy in a suit. My brother Davis says there’s no Santa.”

“How old’s your brother?” Sam asked.

“He’s fourteen and he knows _everything_.”

Sam frowned at that. Dean was only eleven, but he knew a lot and he’d told Sam that Santa could find them no matter what. Dean could be wrong, of course, or he could be lying, but to Sam’s mind, he was way more reliable than Jenner.

“ _My_ brother said that it’s Santa’s deputies at the mall,” Sam asserted. It had been Kris Melrose, and not Dean, but that wasn’t important. “An’ once when we lived in…another place, the firemen brought toys to the kids in our building, from Santa.”

Jenner sniggered and Sally looked at Sam with something like shock, or maybe pity. “Did the firemen bring _you_ toys, too?”

Sam shrugged. He brought his fire truck back to the rug. “Yeah. Everyone in the building got a toy.” He sensed that they weren’t playing with their cars. “What?” he asked in alarm.

Sally leaned forward. “Toys for Tots,” she whispered to him.

“Huh?” Sam scrunched up his face with confusion.

“Toys for Tots,” Sally repeated slowly. “My mom gives the firemen an extra present every year for…for kids who aren’t on Santa’s list. Sam…how come you weren’t on his list?”

Though he didn’t expect the question, Sam lost no time answering. “We were on his list, stupid. We got presents from Santa, but we got the others just because we were there when the firemen came. Anyway, Dean told me: Santa’s gots a lot of kids to get presents for, and the elves can’t make everything. So he gets the firemen to help out. They get people to buy the toys for him and then the firemen take them around. Anyway, it was only the one time, just because we happened to be there, and—and we’d just moved, like a few days before Christmas.”

Jenner wasn’t convinced. “I thought you didn’t believe in Christmas.”

“Huh?” said Sam. “Course we do.”

“Well…how come you’re not in the pageant?”

Sam remembered again that he was supposed to be a Jonah’s Witness. He played with the ladder on his truck. “ _Pageants_ ’re against our religion,” he said earnestly once he’d formed his argument. “We believe in _Christmas_ , though. Just not…performing about it.”

“You believe in Santa, too?” Sally asked. “Cuz Tyshia Bennett isn’t allowed in the pageant, either, but she doesn’t believe in Santa at all.”

“Well, we do,” Sam insisted. “An’ he always finds us. Even without help from firemen. Only….” He bit his lip.

“Only what?”

“Only I haven’t took my letter to him this year, see? So I don’t know if he’ll know what I’m asking for. That’s why I need to go to the mall.”

Jenner crossed his legs Indian-style. “Are you sure you’re allowed to believe in Santa and _not_ be in the pageant?”

“Yes. I could’ve watched the cartoons, too, but they din’t ask me. I could’ve told them.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Jenner said. “The cartoons had singing. You’re not in the pageant, and the cartoon had a Christmas play.”

“So? I’m not in the cartoon.”

“But it was _about_ a play. I don’t think you’re allowed to do that stuff.”

“Yes, I am!” Sam contended.

“Are not!”

“Am too!”

“Are not!” Sam saw Jenner’s arm draw back. When the truck flew, he dodged. The truck tumbled to the floor and rolled unevenly onto the next play area, where two little girls were playing tea parties. One of them shrieked.

“Children!” Mrs. Farnsworth rushed over. “What in the world are you doing, Jenner Martin?”

“Sam started it!” Jenner pointed an accusing finger.

Sam turned red. He wasn’t really surprised that Jenner would blame him—kids always blamed the new guy, Dean said—but he was still angry about it. “Jenner called me a liar and then threw his truck at me,” Sam reported, with a “So there!” expression at Jenner. Dean had told him never to hit someone else first. The first person to hit was nearly always in the most trouble. Dean also told him that with teachers, the best way to avoid trouble was to stick to facts. That way you couldn’t get caught in a lie and it would be harder for the other person to lie, too.

“Jenner, is this true?”

“I didn’t call him a liar.”

“Did you throw that truck?” She pointed where it had landed.

“Yes, he did,” Sally tattled.

Jenner glared at Sam. “He said he was allowed to watch _The Grinch_ and that he’s on Santa’s list. But he’s wrong.”

Sam bit his lip.

Mrs. Farnsworth looked at him, then at Jenner. She seemed to be thinking, or maybe, like Dad did sometimes, counting to ten. “Jenner, go sit at your desk, please. Sam, come with me.”

Sam felt himself flushing again, this time with embarrassment. He wished he could keep a poker face like Dean. He could keep himself from cracking up usually, but if anybody made him angry or embarrassed, he turned bright red. He hated that. And he hated Mrs. Farnsworth for making him go up to her desk twice in one day. Everyone was watching.

He smiled weakly at Sally, anyway, in thanks for standing up for him, and got to his feet. As Jenner walked to his desk, Mrs. Farnsworth marched Sam to the front of the room. She called Miss Nolan. “You wait there, Sam,” she told him. Then she went to the big board by the door, where kids got their stars or other marks to indicate their successes. Jenner’s row had two blue stars on it. Mrs. Farnsworth took one away. Sam’s row had a gold star. Mrs. Farnsworth took that away and replaced it with the blue one, adding two more blue stars on his row. She looked at the back of the room, where kids were jeering and whispering a bit.

“Go back to your playing, children,” she instructed. “Jenner, Sam: you’ve both lost one star. Jenner, you should know better than to try to resolve disagreements with violence. And Sam,” she continued, crossing to crouch in front of him, “I’m asking Miss Nolan to watch the class while I take you down to Mr. Brandford. I think you’re having a little trouble being left out of the activities for the holidays. But lying isn’t going to solve anything. When you get older, you may make all kinds of decisions about your faith and its dictates.”

“Its what?” Sam frowned.

“What your faith says you can and can’t do,” she explained. “For now, that’s up to your father.”

Sam sulked and said nothing. He couldn’t tell her that he hadn’t been lying, because, he had a feeling, Jonah’s Witnesses probably didn’t actually watch _Charlie Brown_ or _The Grinch_. And they probably weren’t on Santa’s list. Still, it wasn’t cool for Jenner to say so. He’d have to suck up his point loss and deal.

Miss Nolan arrived and Mrs. Farnsworth took Sam down to Mr. Brandford’s office. Mr. Brandford was the school counselor. Sam hadn’t met him before, but he knew that a counselor saw kids who had problems. He and Dean had both been to counselors before. Dean was often on a first-name basis with them, and with principals. Since he had become so experienced at talking to them, Dean had warned Sam last year about being called in to anyone’s office. “They’ll try to get you to talk to them, to find out if you’re a freak or dangerous. Or if Dad is. But they’re smart, they’ll know if you make things sound too Stepford. So be careful, and _don’t_ give away anything important.” There was a whole list of important stuff not to tell. Sam took deep breaths, reminding himself of what he should and shouldn’t say. He decided it was better not to say anything. Name, rank, and serial number—that’s how it was in the movies. If Dean didn’t crack, neither would Sam.

Mrs. Farnsworth left Sam in a chair outside first and talked to the counselor alone. Sam prepared himself as best as he could. Then the door opened and Sam heard his name called. “Could you come in, please?”

The school counselor was a man who looked about the same age as Dad, but way less fit. He was flabby and balding, wore glasses, and had thin lips and small eyes. Sam sat in the chair he indicated, which was next to his and at an angle. Mrs. Farnsworth shut the door behind her on her way out. “Hello, Sam. We’ve not met. I’m Mr. Brandford.” He held out his hand.

“Hello.” Sam shook it firmly once and let his hand drop.

“What shall we talk about?” Mr. Brandford asked. He put a little pad of paper on his lap and picked up a pen from a cup on his desk.

Sam didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Farnsworth tells me you’re having a little trouble. Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“I think with everyone getting excited about Christmas, you’re feeling a little left out. Is that it?”

Sam didn’t say anything.

Mr. Brandford tried again. “Mrs. Farnsworth also told me that you had to draw a second picture this week for your art class. What was wrong with the first one?”

“Nuthin’,” Sam said, offended into speaking.

“Well, Ms. Penn thought there was a problem. Did she tell you what it was?”

“No. But Dad liked it. He put it on our fridge, so it can’t have been too bad.” Sam clamped his mouth shut. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

Mr. Brandford didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seemed to become more interested. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “What was in the picture?”

“Me and Dean.”

“Who’s Dean?”

“M’brother.”

“Your older brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Our car.”

Mr. Brandford thought about that for a minute. “Why was the car in the picture?”

“I like our car. It’s cool. And we drive a lot.”

“I see.” He made a note on his pad. “What were you doing in the picture? Were you in the car?”

“No. Ms. Penn said we had to draw a picture of something you do in the snow. We were writing our names.”

“Were you writing your names with…sticks?”

“No.”

Mr. Brandford thought about that for a minute. He was quiet so long that Sam wondered if he’d said too much. Finally he asked, “So, were you angry at Ms. Penn? For making you draw another picture?”

Sam hesitated. It sounded like a trick question, like when Dad asked something but already knew the answer. A test. “A little,” he admitted, “but it wasn’t a big deal. Dad liked the first one just fine, so I didn’t care.”

“So you didn’t mind, because your dad kept the first one?”

Sam screwed up the right side of his face. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Just making sure I understand, Sam.” He wrote again. “Why don’t you tell me what happened today? Why did you tell Jenner that you could watch cartoons about Christmas?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess I just wish I’d gotten candy,” he said. It was a fact, it was honest, so he figured it was a safe enough answer.

Mr. Brandford nodded. “It’s hard to be different, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded.

“You’re new to class, too, and that’s not easy.”

Sam nodded.

“So, maybe you’re just wanting to fit in a little better?”

Sam shrugged.

“Is that why you lied to Jenner?”

Sam shrugged.

“Sam, I’m going to recommend that you come back and talk to me some more next week. I think you could use a little help figuring out ways to get along with your classmates without losing what makes you different. How does that sound?”

“Don’t…don’t you have to ask my Dad about that?”

“Well, let’s try talking again and then we’ll see. Okay?”

Sam bit his lip. He could figure this out with Dean over the weekend; he’d be prepared and they could make sure he didn’t need to talk to Mr. Brandford again. “Okay,” he said.

Mr. Brandford looked at his watch. “I’ll take you back upstairs so you can get your things; it’s almost time to go home.”

When the final bell rang, his classmates all clattered down to the auditorium for play practice. Sam put his coat on and waited at the bus loop. Dad was supposed to pick them up again this afternoon. Dad didn’t come right away, so Sam went back inside and stayed by the door. He waited and waited. 

A green car pulled in to the bus loop. Someone was waving from the back seat. When it pulled around, Sam recognized Dean. Dean hopped out and walked toward the door.

“C’mon, Sam, it’s okay!”

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asked as he pushed open the door and closed the gap.

“Probably held up somewhere. Mrs. Stakowski said she’d give us a ride. And guess what?” Dean was grinning like he did the time he’d discovered they could piggyback on a neighbor’s HBO signal.

“What?”

“She’s taking us to the mall, tomorrow, too!”

Sam’s eyes went wide. Trust Dean to know, without being told, what Sam wanted most. Who needed seven-year-olds with parents and cars? Sam had Dean.


	11. Chapter 11

Lyle Olohan would be working late tonight. The accidental death of Jake Tarlin, the electrician, had the parent company demanding answers, and growing more willing to take those answers out of Lyle’s hide. Lyle wanted those answers, too, but not just to save his job: he was getting spooked by it all. And Lyle was not a superstitious man. But something had to be done.

“Gina, do you have the numbers of those investigators I asked you for earlier?”

“Yes, but why do you need them?” Her voice over the phone was tentative.

“Have you been paying attention? Lisa Stoddard, Del Masters, all those customers, and now Jake.”

“Yes, it’s awful, but…isn’t that McIntyre guy working on it?

“Who?”

“McIntyre. John McIntyre? The investigator you already hired?”

“I never hired an investigator.”

“Sure you did,” Gina told him confidently. “He came by the office. I processed his paperwork so he could start Saturday. He’s undercover—he signed on under the name of Winchester.”

“Winchester? He’s a Santa.”

“Yes—that’s his cover, Lyle. Are you feeling okay?”

“Just…hold up a minute. You’re saying that Winchester…my John Winchester who’s working as a Santa, came to you claiming to be John McIntyre and that I’d hired him to investigate?”

Gina paused on the other end of the line.

“Gina?”

“I’m thinking. I mean, I thought he was the same guy…. He said he’d been hired to investigate, and he used your name. When his paperwork came over from you, same age, same first name, ex-Marine…I just put the pieces together. He said he was working for the company…. Actually, he never said _you’d_ hired him. Maybe the home office did.”

“Great. Just great.”

“But isn’t it a good thing?”

“It’d be a good thing if _I’d_ done it first. I don’t like the corporate offices looking over our shoulders like that. Makes me nervous.” He pulled out a cigarette.

“What should we do?”

“Nothing,” Lyle said around lighting up. “If he’s working for us and the company hired him, they’re taking this more seriously than I gave’em credit for. Maybe someone’s actually listening to me; that’d be a miracle. If someone else hired him to investigate us, we could be looking at a lawsuit. The best way to avoid that is for me to have a chat with him and offer our full cooperation. Show’em we’re as eager to resolve the situation as anyone.”

“He’s the one who mentioned the haunted thing,” Gina told him.

Lyle sighed. “Probably just fishing. I told you that was a load of bullshit.” He sucked on his cigarette and held the smoke before exhaling. “Okay. I’m sticking around tonight—I want to see if the people who’re doing this have found a way to get in after hours.”

“That’s nearly eight hours from now,” Gina protested.

“I know. I’ve already called the wife. Now I’m calling you.”

“I’m just glad you caught me. It’s after four—I was about to leave.”

“Gina, before you leave, could you fax me the end-of-month projections? And…Winchester’s file, again, please. I wanna go over it.”

Gina sighed. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”

“You’re the best.”

“Just remember that when it’s bonus time.”

Lyle laughed and got off the phone. He put on another pot of coffee.

About an hour and half later, he went into the mall for dinner at one of the sit-down restaurants. After supper, he wandered past the North Pole to check on things. The line was long, but running smoothly. Kate Pasternak waved merrily. Lyle walked over to her.

“How’s everything today?” he asked.

“So far, so good.”

He stuck around to keep an eye out for an hour or so. Seeing nothing suspicious, he stabbed out his second cigarette and headed back to his office to review Winchester’s file.

Nothing in the paperwork suggested anything other than a down-and-out mechanic who’d been drifting for a while. There was a home number, and it wasn’t too late yet. Lyle dialed it.

“Hello?” a young voice, a boy’s voice, answered on the third ring.

“I’m looking for John Winchester,” Lyle said.

There was a pause. It sounded like the kid had covered the mouthpiece and was repeating the conversation to someone out of the room. “Who’s looking for him?” the boy asked when he came back to the phone.

“My name is Lyle Olohan. Mr. Winchester works for me. Is he there?”

“Oh. Yes…hang on, please,” the boy said, much more politely. Lyle heard him put down the receiver. In the background, he heard the kid say, “Dad? He says he’s your boss.”

The receiver was picked up a minute later. “This is Winchester,” the older voice said warily.

“Mr. Winchester, it’s Lyle Olohan.”

“Oh,” Winchester said, sounding like the pieces had clicked. Lyle recalled that Winchester had said this was his second mall job. Must be hard to know which boss was calling him for what. Especially if he had a third master in the form of a client. “Yes, Mr. Olohan, what can I do for you?”

Lyle had worked retail for nearly 30 years; he recognized “customer service” voice when he heard it. He ignored it. “You can tell me why you told my regional office manager that you’re investigating the Workshop.”

There was a slight pause. Lyle could tell that the son had inherited the father’s phone manners. The sound became muffled again, but Lyle could hear Winchester telling his son to go in the other room. When Winchester came back, the background noise was much more subdued. “I am looking into it, yeah,” Winchester admitted, more quickly than Lyle expected. “My client asked me not to announce myself on site.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“It was…a calculated risk. Now that you do know, I hope that will make things easier for both of us.”

Lyle grunted. “So is it Winchester, or McIntyre?”

“Winchester.” Lyle could tell he was smiling on the other end.

“Still coming in tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

”Can I still expect you to do the job, though? I need a Santa, not a PI who ignores the kids.”

“I’ll do the job, trust me,” Winchester assured him. His voice was steel.

Lyle glanced at Winchester’s application again, running his finger down the page. The checked box surprised him. “You’re a vet?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He’d known about the Marines, but hadn’t noticed that he’d served a tour in ‘Nam. A veteran he’d hired last season had gone darn near feral when a brass band got too close to the Workshop. But that guy had been only half-hinged to begin with. Winchester seemed together. “That your son, answered the phone?”

“Yes…. Where’re you going with this?” Winchester’s tone was polite, but had room to turn angry fast.

“Relax. Just trying to figure you out. Got a PI’s license?”

“Sure,” Winchester said easily. “It’s in the process of being transferred to Michigan. Like I said, we just moved pretty recently.”

“Gotta tell ya, I’m not big on being lied to. On the other hand, I’m not usually in a position to be picky. And this is no exception.” He fished out another cigarette. His wife was always after him to cut down, but during the Christmas season he couldn’t be bothered even with the pretense of backing off. “I was in Korea. Sometimes it’s hard for you boys to readjust to civilian life. That why you move around so much?”

“Go where the work is,” Winchester said tightly. “Look, nothing we talked about the other day isn’t still true. Happens I’m also looking to put an end to the difficulties you’ve been having. You of all people should want me to succeed in that.”

“I do,” Lyle admitted. “Believe me, I want all these pranks to end, and the people responsible for it arrested. Gotta say I’d feel more comfortable if I knew who you were working for, though.”

“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. All you need to worry about is that you hired me to do a job, and I can do that job and watch out for your…prankster. Everyone wins.”

“Huh. Well, I guess, given the circumstances….” Lyle shook his head. “I’d rather put a stop to all these weird incidents than insist on your complete disclosure. Bring your license tomorrow, pay attention to the kids while you’re on my payroll, and for God’s sake, find out what the hell is going on in my mall.”

“That’s the plan,” Winchester told him. “See you tomorrow.”

Lyle bade him goodnight and hung up. For all he knew, Gina was right and the company _had_ hired him, not only to look into the accidents, but to report on the operational side as well. _Damn that corporation_ , he thought: _Always the last to know what’s going on._ But Winchester seemed an okay sort. He made a note in the file to check out the guy’s private investigator license and see if he could find out who hired him.

The mall was in its final hour of business for the night when Lyle strolled back onto the floor. This time of night, there was only one photographer still working, and she was just about ready to lock it down for the evening. A straggling line of parents with cranky and tired kids still trickled through the Workshop. Stacy Lefford was working, as well. She was the photographers’ favorite helper, because she had such a way with getting the kids to smile for the camera. Stacy was smart, too; possibly his smartest Elf this year, or in recent years. She was in her junior year of college, and Lyle expected her to go far.

“Hey, Lyle!” Marie Smith-Barker, the photographer, waved to him as he came by. “You’re not usually here to put us to bed. What’s up?”

“Tis the season,” Lyle said amiably. “Seen anything unusual tonight, Marie?”

“Unusual like kids who say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ or unusual like decorations moving by themselves?”

“Keep your voice down, we’ve still got customers. And the latter.”

“Nope, nothing weird. That girl was back, though, earlier,” she added as she switched battery packs for her flash.

“Girl? What girl?”

“Oh, she shows up every other night or so. You know, the blonde?”

“No, I don’t know.” Lyle pulled her away another step. “What do you mean?”

Marie seemed genuinely surprised Lyle didn’t know what she was talking about. “You mean Jim and Gary didn’t say anything to you?”

“Say anything about what?” Lyle asked, but at that moment a child climbed up into the lap of his Santa- _du-soir_. Manny Rodriguez, Lyle reminded himself. 

“Oops, hang on,” Marie said, crossing to her tripod. She clicked away on the shutter until she found her money shot. Five minutes later she was back, Stacy had the kid over by the sleigh, and the youngster’s mother was filling out an order form.

“Jim noticed it first, maybe two weeks ago?” Marie told him quietly. “Sometimes on the exposures, a blonde girl is showing up. Only at certain angles, if we catch parts of the display instead of just the chair and the building backdrop.”

“And it’s on Gary’s film, too? And yours?”

“Yeah. Not very often, though. And I couldn’t remember at first whether I’d seen her through the lens. I mean, we see so many kids on any given day. And you’ve got a lot of employees.”

“Right,” Lyle muttered. “What does she look like?”

Marie shrugged. “Young, long straight hair. Sometimes she’s in an outfit like, oh, I don’t know, something out of _Sound of Music_. You know, a what-do-you-call-it…a dirndl dress. Other times I’ve seen her in one of those broomstick skirt-like things…long, flowing. I thought she worked here at first.”

“She stands over by the throne?” Lyle wanted to know. 

Marie had to step away again for another shoot. When she returned, she said, “She’s always been near the tree when I’ve seen her. Tonight I noticed her through the lens, but I didn’t see her when I looked over by the side of the display.”

“Son of a bitch,” Lyle said softly.

“What?”

“Maybe Gina’s right: we are haunted.”

Marie laughed. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt. Or something.”

“A publicity stunt that no one’s publicizing?” Lyle scoffed. “You saw her tonight?”

“Yeah, about an hour ago.”

Lyle made up his mind. The hell with Winchester’s investigation. He was going to fix things himself. Tonight. “Thanks, Marie,” he said absently. 

He went into the kitchen and tried to think of how he could flush the quarry. Once Kate, Manny, Marie, Stacy, Simon, and the rest of his employees had packed it in for the night, Lyle turned off the kitchen lights. He sat in the dark, the red-orange tip of his cigarette the only light, apart from the dissipated glow of the tree’s lights. Eventually those winked out as well.

The mall grew quiet quickly. Lyle opened the kitchen door slightly so that he could view the Workshop area, and behind it, the massive tree. He waited for what felt like forever, reminding him of the times he’d pulled picket duty up on the 39th parallel. Finally, he saw one of the branches move. Lyle stood and moved to the door, peering through its crack.

The branches moved again. Lyle caught a glimpse of yellow hair glowing in the exit lights.

“Come on out!” he barked. He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the carpet that cut between the kitchen and the Workshop wall. “I know you’re there—might as well come clean!”

If Wade and Jerry were watching in the video room, Lyle thought, they were probably pissing themselves laughing. Probably thought he’d finally gone and cracked. 

But the branches moved again and something appeared inside the canopy of needles. “You did this to me,” he heard a voice say. It was the voice of an old woman. The branches moved again, and out of their shelter emerged an ugly hag. 

“Lady, I’ve done nothing. You, on the other hand, seem to have caused no end of trouble.”

She held out her arms in front of her. The flesh of her biceps sagged and her hands formed two claws. Her hair was long and straight and yellow, but more like brittle dead pine needles than flowing tresses. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she shrieked. Lyle’s jaw went slack in horror, and his cigarette fell from his mouth. The fake snow caught fire at his feet. 

He and the old woman reacted nearly at the same time. Lyle stamped on the burning cotton batting vigorously. The confetti began to melt with a smell of burning plastic. The hag, meanwhile, screamed in terror at the sight of the flames. Lyle concentrated on putting out the fire before the sprinklers when off and soaked the whole display. He stomped around more, making sure no extra sparks had got away. Relieved, he wiped his brow. Tomorrow would be the biggest business day of the season, except of course for _next_ Saturday, and he wasn’t about to be the one blamed for losing hours due to a lengthy cleanup.

He looked around. The woman had vanished—disappeared. Probably run away. Lyle looked up toward the cameras. “I hope you boys caught that on tape,” he said, even though he knew that they didn’t have audio.

A second later, something smashed into the back of his head. Lyle went down like a stone. Hands, strong as oak branches, held him down in the plastic snow. It burned his tongue with an acrid bite, still hot from the fire. Little curls were stuck in his teeth, like chewy, charred coconut shavings or thick dental floss. He was choking on the stuff, swallowing it, breathing it. Then he couldn’t breathe at all.

~*~

Saturday morning dawned with rare sunshine breaking through the usual Midwestern cloud cover. The glare off the snow made John fish an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove box. He’d left Dean and Sammy parked with bowls of cereal in front of Bugs and Daffy. Monica Stakowski would pick them up in late morning. He hoped he was doing the right thing there—and not just because of potential danger at the mall. There was the potential for a misunderstanding if Mike’s mother tried to push her luck. She had pointed out hopefully that she was a Ms., not a Mrs., but he couldn’t think of her as Ms. Stakowski; she was just too young to be a Ms. Anything. Far too young to be sniffing around _him_ , even if Dean and Mike were the same age. 

More importantly, though, John hoped Dean was as up for the trip as he’d claimed. Monica had promised to bring them home if Dean started feeling weak—John just doubted Dean would say or do anything to let on if he did tucker out. Still, the kid had a point: it was unlikely he’d be able to shop for his Secret Santa otherwise. After trying to make sure Sam was fully integrated to his school program, John’d feel like a hypocrite for throwing up roadblocks to Dean’s enjoyment of the holiday activities at school.

He inched along in the line of cars trying to reach the parking lot. He’d allowed an extra hour for scouting out a spot—any spot—and bluffing through some follow-up with Lyle Olohan, but it still took nearly all that time to even reach the rows of painted lines. He rushed inside and was almost running when he came into the service corridor, where he pulled up at the distinctive sight of police activity. An officer held up a hand to stop his approach.

“Whoa—restricted right now, sorry,” the deputy said.

“What’s happened?”

“We’re still determining that, now please, if you’ll—”

“I was supposed to meet Lyle Olohan—has something happened to him?”

“John?” a voice behind him called shakily. He turned.

“Gina? What are you doing here?”

Gina looked awful. Her cardigan sweater was buttoned unevenly and her hair hadn’t been combed. Dark smudges circled her eyes. “I came in to speak to the sheriff, and to tell everyone…I wanted them to hear from someone who’d known him…. Lyle’s dead.”

She fell against him as she forced out the words. One hand went over her eyes when she started crying. John put his arms around her awkwardly and turned away from the sheriffs. 

“When? How?” he asked urgently.

“Last night sometime. He called to tell me he’d be staying late —he wanted to find out what was really going on—we talked about you.” She looked up guiltily. “He didn’t hire you, did he?”

John shook his head. “No, but I’m trying to stop the accidents, too.”

“I believe you, I just…Lyle was so…indestructible, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

“And he was so determined to put a stop to all this.”

“I know. That’s why I was meeting him early. Look, let’s get you some coffee or something. Have you talked to the others yet?”

Gina nodded. “But…I wanted to ask you if I could tell everyone about who you really are. Maybe someone knows something. I just...Lyle would have known what to do, but without him here….”

“We’ll manage,” John said. “We’ll figure it out. Best thing now is to tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know a lot. The police say he was asphyxiated. He fell at the display and must have swallowed some of the snowflakes. He choked on them.” She swallowed another sob.

“So he was alone? Have they reviewed the camera footage?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. They won’t let me call his wife—they said they’d handle that.” Her lip trembled. “But then I heard someone say that there was evidence of a fire, and…I just don’t know—”

”It’s okay, Gina.” John patted her shoulder. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee, calm down. I have to change, but I’ll meet you at the Kitchen and we can talk to everyone. Okay?”

“Sure.” Gina returned his reassuring smile and went back into the mall. John went back to the sheriff’s team, glad that he had brought along his fake FBI badge, too, just in case Lyle didn’t buy the PI license. He pulled out the federal ID and flashed it at the guard.

“Let’s try this again,” he said with authority. “Who’s in charge?”

“Sheriff…Sheriff Dade,” the officer told him. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

John pushed past him. “No need, I’ll find him,” he said on his way in.

Sheriff Dade looked like he’d wished this whole case had waited one year, because then he’d be retired and past caring. John had seen the look on a dozen local men’s faces over the few years he’d been hunting: the look that wondered, “Why me?” in the face of something inexplicable or eerie. Dade was a large man, taller and broader than John, but with the seedy look of an ex-football player who was more interested now in watching the game than getting out on the field himself. His eyes were sharp, though, and showed nothing to indicate John’s ID impressed him. “FBI?” he grunted. “Figured you boys’d be along sooner or later.”

“Well, these accidents are getting chronic.”

“Who called you in? One of my boys?”

“No, we have a flag for this kind of thing. I’ve been here a few days.”

“Huh.” Dade leaned over to one of his deputies. “Be sure we get Ms. Tupelo’s signoff when we take all these personnel files for evidence tagging.”

“You figuring it’s a homicide? One of the employees?” John surmised.

“Could be,” Dade said with a shrug. “Before this week, none of the incidents was fatal. Now I’ve got two casualties inside seventy-two hours. Could be someone’s using the accident rate as a cover-up for a plain old-fashioned murder.”

John nodded even though he knew better. “Suspects?”

“Anyone who worked for him, but my money’s on this guy.” He tapped the open file on Lyle’s desk. John glanced down at his own name.

“Why’s that?”

“Turns out, according to the office manager, this fella claimed he was a PI—which he ain’t—and I think Olohan found out, confronted him. They argued. Ms. Tupelo said Olohan was planning to call this…Winchester. Or McIntyre. Whatever his name is.”

“Wouldn’t explain the electrician, though. Motive there?”

Dade sniffed. “Who knows what Winchester’s hiding? Could be he was behind the other pranks all along, and Tarlin got in the way.”

John pressed his lips together appraisingly. “I doubt it.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “’Cause I’m Winchester. I’ve been undercover.”

Dade stared at him. “Not your usual Fed M.O.”

“No,” John agreed. “But since I’m alone on this one, I thought it’d be useful to infiltrate rather than remain outside.”

Dade sized him up again. “Don’t your protocol include announcing yourself to the local law enforcement?” he growled.

“Not when I’ve been trying to keep a low profile, it don’t.” He spread his hands. “Look, the fact is, I didn’t kill him. I’m not sure any of his employees did.”

“Someone sure as hell did.”

“Have you reviewed the tapes yet?”

“Yeah. Nothin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was some kind of an error…didn’t pick up anything.”

“I have to get over there for my undercover shift. Could I take a look at the camera footage later?”

“I suppose, but it won’t help you none.”

“I’d like to see that for myself, thanks.” John applied a touch of Federal arrogance.

“Okay. Give your name to Spencer out there and when you come to the station, he’ll let you take a look.”

“Thanks.” John shook hands and went on to the locker room to change. He told himself to call Monica and cancel on the boys, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was just being overprotective. There had been no attacks against kids. Besides, the boys were too old to come to the North Pole, so they’d be out of danger. And on top of all that, he’d be right there in case anything did happen. They’d be fine.

He walked to the Kitchen and stood by while Gina re-introduced him.

“John’s really an investigator,” she told them all, “so if anyone knows anything, please…talk to him. John?”

John cleared his throat. Public speaking was not his favorite activity. He wished like hell his Santa suit had pockets so he could do something with his hands and not feel like Patton. He wished like hell he wasn’t dressed as Santa to begin with. “I’m working on a theory, might sound a little crazy. But I think there’s woman appearing around the time of the accidents, doesn’t belong here. Anyone seen a blonde with long hair just before or after an incident? Maybe in clothes that look really old-fashioned?”

A couple people nodded. Kate wore a grim expression of triumph. So did the pretty, trim Black girl next to her, whom John figured had to be Stacy. John figured Kate was so gleeful because she’d be able to tell everyone she’d pegged him as a PI from the very start. As for Stacy, he decided it just had to be because she’d been sure there was something wrong, and now John had confirmed it.

“Okay,” John continued, relieved that no one called him an insane bastard for the suggestion. “Anyone sees this girl, or someone you don’t know who obviously isn’t some kid’s mom, point her out right away. And if I tell you we’ve got to get the kids away, out of line and back behind a safe perimeter, be ready to help them move.”

It felt a little ridiculous to issue orders like his old sergeant while wearing a white curly wig and fake beard, but then, he’d never led a platoon of elves into battle before, either. The group broke up, talking in small groups about Lyle and what they faced today, how to cope, how to find John’s target, how to be business as usual while putting an end to the accidents that claimed their boss’s life. Even Andy Miller seemed shaken by Lyle’s death and willing to do whatever it took. Andy pulled him aside and quietly asked him if John thought there’d be trouble with the cops over the betting pool.

“Not if it stops,” John growled at him.

“Uh…yeah.” Andy took a step backward and stopped himself. His hand picked at one of the jingle bells on his tunic.

“How much did you make off it, anyway?”

“Uh…couple hundred.”

“Got it on you?”

Andy blanched.

“Turn it over and I’ll make sure it gets to the right people.”

John didn’t blink. Andy forked over the cash.

“There’s one more thing,” John said, raising his voice again to cut through the gabble of conversations. “I think the victims were all smokers. So if you see anyone lighting up in the line, stop them.”

This caused a new ripple through the crew. “We can’t—”

“I’m not saying they can’t smoke at all,” John assured them. “They can have their cigarettes somewhere else, but the North Pole just went smoke-free.” He grinned and plopped his hat onto his head. “Santa says it’s bad for you.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean rooted through his jeans pockets for his Secret Santa slip. Without unfolding it, he crammed it into the old wallet he’d got from Dad, along with the twenty dollars he was supposed to split with Sammy, and a second twenty Dad had given him last night. “Ten for your Secret Santa,” he’d said, “and don’t feel you have to hit the line on that. And ten for you and Sam for lunch or whatever.” Dean shoved the wallet into his back pocket. The bulge it created felt strange, but not uncomfortable.

Sam dug out his paltry bank—a leather bag found at Uncle Joshua’s house two summers ago—and opened the drawstring. He dumped out the contents to sort them. Dean pulled out a flannel shirt to wear over his long-sleeved tee. By the time he had put it on and found a second layer for Sammy, his brother had separated out the things that weren’t money, like the seashell he’d picked up in Kitty Hawk and a button from the old Army surplus jacket Dad had long since discarded. He divided the change up by type. 

“How much is it, Dean?” he asked.

“You can count it,” Dean told him. “Four quarters is a buck, you know that; so’s ten dimes.”

“And two nickels is a dime.”

“Right.”

Sammy counted painstakingly. Dean stacked the pennies in ten-cent columns, but they kept falling over on the mattress while Sam squirmed over his counting.

“Four dollars and…twenty-one cents!” Sam announced when he’d counted a second time. “Is that a lot?”

Dean shrugged. “Depends on what you want to spend it on.”

“’S’it enough for one of those shade things you put in the windshield?”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Probably not. Anyway, whaddaya want that for?”

“The car gets hot,” Sammy explained, as if that should have been obvious.

“Yeah, but why waste our money on that?”

“For Dad,” Sammy said. The way he widened his eyes and the little head jiggle he made added an unspoken, “Stupid” to his statement.

“Nah. If he wants something like that, he’ll get one.”

Sammy pulled one side of his mouth inward, with the implication that he didn’t think Dad would necessarily do anything so practical without some sort of prod. He didn’t protest aloud, though, just scooped the change back into the bag. He tied up the drawstring. “What _should_ we get, then?”

Dean didn’t have to answer because at that moment, they heard the buzzer out at the apartment door. “They’re here!” Dean ran to the front room and pressed the intercom button. “Mrs. Stakowski?”

“Oh, it’s Ms., honey. You and your brother ready?”

“Uh, yeah. Just give us a minute to put on our coats and we’ll be right down.” He grabbed his jacket. “Sammy, come on!” he yelled.

Sammy ran out, one boot unbuckled. In the interest of time, Dean buckled it for him. They got their hats and scarves and Dean pointed out Sam’s idiot mittens just so Sam wouldn’t think he’d forgotten about them. He locked the door and shoved the key into his coat pocket.

On the way to the car, Dean realized what Mike’s mother meant when she’d said “Ms.” and not “Mrs.” She wasn’t married. That changed things a little. He’d have to be even more careful not to give her any ideas about Dad.

Dean was used to women looking hopefully at his father. Usually when they saw the ring he still wore on his left hand, they dropped their eyes and any plans to flirt with him. Sometimes, the sight of him and Sammy dissipated their interest; sometimes it just made things worse. Dean could generally scare off anyone who tried to step-mother them—not when Dad was around, of course, because that was just a fast trip to extra drills for being impolite.

Sometimes, Dean was pretty sure, Dad set women straight on his own.

But occasionally, Dean knew, Dad didn’t discourage the women they met. And that was okay—waitresses were always fair game, when there was the possibility of extra pie or 10% off the bill. Even if it went beyond flirting, Dad was entitled to a little fun now and then (“grown-up fun,” as Dad referred to it), as long as the women he picked understood that they weren’t going to play happy families.

Dad didn’t take up with anyone like that very often. When he did see a “nice” lady more than once, he tried to keep Dean and Sammy out of it. Dean could usually figure it out, though. He knew that Dad and Mrs. Kirkland had “done it,” but he knew he wasn’t _supposed_ to know. Since Mrs. Kirkland didn’t act any different toward him or Sammy, Dean was happy enough preserving the fiction. Mrs. Kirkland had been okay, on the scale of Dad’s choices. Not as clear-cut as any of the hookers Dad had had sex with (which Dean knew he was _never_ supposed to know about), nor even as transitory and spontaneous as the occasional waitress or barista, but at least she didn’t swoop in with any notion that Dean or Sam would let her be their mother.

Dean hadn’t really watched Mrs.—Ms.—Stakowski closely enough around Dad to be sure what kind of woman she was. Learning she was a single mom worried him a little. On the other hand, she already had her own son, so maybe the idea of two more wouldn’t appeal to her that much. Plus Dad hadn’t flirted at all, which meant he wasn’t remotely interested. But then Dad thought Ms. Stakowski was married, too. 

Sitting in the back of her car, Dean tried not to think about that anymore, and tried instead to concentrate on what to get his Secret Santa for the exchange.

Sam, whom they’d made sit in the middle so his feet were dangling on either side of the hump made by the chassis, had apparently been thinking something slightly different. “What’re we gonna get Dad?”

“I dunno. If I don’t spend all ten bucks, I guess we could use what’s left over for him. Won’t be a lot, though.”

“What did you get him last year?” Ms. Stakowski asked from the front.

Dean frowned deeply. “We…I don’t think we got him anything.”

“Mrs. Kirkland put our names on one of his gifts, though,” Sammy piped up. “She showed me.”

“Who’s Mrs. Kirkland?”

“No one,” Dean said to shut down that line of questioning. Then he had a thought. He tacked on, “Just a friend of Dad’s” and let it sit there. Let her think Dad already had a lady-friend; couldn’t hurt. So what if Dad had moved on?

“Oh,” Ms. Stakowski said in a way that reassured Dean. She wet her lips. “Well…what does he like?”

“Guns.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean said through clenched teeth. He smiled insincerely in what he liked to think of as his “Steve McQueen smug” look. “He was a rifleman in the Marines,” he explained.

“My dad says guns are out of control in this country,” Mike said over Sammy’s head.

“Your dad? But I thought—”

“Oh, Mom’s not married,” Mike said shamelessly. “My dad lives in California. I spend summers with him.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that. He lowered his voice. “Wouldn’t you rather live with your dad? In California?”

Mike shrugged. “Dad’s cool. But I like Gramma and Mom.” He bit his lip. “California’s fun, though. Ever been?”

“Yeah,” Sammy put in. “We lived there a whole three months. Didn’t we, Dean?”

Dean nodded.

“We lived right on the beach, too. Dean learned to surf, an’ he waterskied right over a tank of sharks!”

“That was _Happy Days_ , Sammy, you spaz.” Dean rolled his eyes at Mike.

“I can surf,” Mike volunteered. “Next summer, my dad’s taking me sailing.”

“Have you ever ridden a Ski-Doo?” Sammy asked. “I wanted to but Dad said I’s too little.”

“You were,” Dean said, smooshing Sam’s hood onto his head. “Still are, shrimp.”

Sammy stuck out his tongue—possibly his most eloquent statement so far that day. Week. Month, maybe.

“Well,” Ms. Stakowski said, pulling them back to the subject, “we have to go to Macy’s and I figure I can’t get away without letting you go to the toy store or Spencer, huh?”

“Nope,” Mike told her brightly. 

“And there’s something I want to pick up from Sears, and my hairdresser…. Where else?”

“Bookstore!” Sammy said immediately.

“Dork,” Dean muttered.

“Okay,” Ms. Stakowski chuckled. “Any ideas for your Dad?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “’M not sure it’s absolutely necessary, though. Usually we don’t get him anything.”

“I want to, though, Dean,” Sammy said unhelpfully.

“Well, maybe you’ll think of something,” Ms. Stakowski said, soothing Sam’s distress and Dean’s scowl.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean stressed to Sam.

The mall was incredibly crowded. It took almost half an hour just to get from the entrance to the parking lot, there were so many cars. Luckily, a woman got into her car right in front of them, so Ms. Stakowski waited and took her spot as soon as she backed out of it.

They came in through the Macy’s. “I can hit this on our way out,” she told them. “No use carrying big bags right off the bat.” The store was festooned with garlands, fake trees, stars hanging from the ceiling, nutcrackers and angels on tables. Dean and Sam both stopped in their tracks at the sight of all the swag. Mike had skipped forward to a display of holiday baking pans.

“What the heck are these?” he asked.

“They’re for cakes,” his mother explained, frowning.

Dean recovered a second after his body halted. He tugged off Sam’s mittens to cover his moment of shock. “Hang on, Ms. Stakowski. Lemme get all this stuff off Sammy.”

Sammy balked. “Dean, I’m not helpless.”

“So help.”

That got him moving and soon their jackets were unzipped, their scarves unwound. Dean stowed his hat and gloves in his coat pockets. By then, the busy décor ceased to faze them, although the closeness of the tables and racks of merchandise still made him feel a little claustrophobic. Following Ms. Stakowski, they waded into the dangerous waters of the department store.

She led them past racks of women’s clothes and cases of jewelry. Occasionally she would touch a sleeve, checking a price, and sadly drop her hold on the garment. Dean’s nose prickled when they entered the perfume and makeup section. A lady gave Ms. Stakowski a free spritz of something that smelled like hydrangea and grain alcohol.

Sam tugged Dean’s sleeve. “Smells like Uncle Bobby’s homemade lighter fluid,” he whispered. He had to repeat it for Dean over the noise of the store.

Dean grinned. “We’re s’posed to be polite,” he reminded Sam.

“I am. I didn’t say it to _her_.”

They got out of the store and into the open central corridor. Shop fronts lined each side, their window displays obscured by the crowds of rushing shoppers. Ms. Stakowski pulled the three boys to a ledge near the fountain.

“Should we look at the map or just wander?” she asked Dean.

“Map—”

“Wander,” Sammy said quickly and clearly. “We don’t know what we want.”

“Okay.” She held out her hand to Sam. Dean tensed.

Sam looked at her hand as if trying to decide whether it more closely resembled a piranha about to bite him or a particularly slimy handful of worms someone had just dared him to eat. Dean bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

Ms. Stakowski realized she’d made a mistake and wiped her palm on her leggings. “Well, stay together and sing out if you see something, okay?”

“We will,” Dean said. He almost held his own hand out, just to show her his superiority, but he didn’t want Mike to see him leading his little brother by the hand. Instead he said, “Heel, Sam,” and whistled a little the way Bobby signaled to Adlai.

Sam punched him in the arm. Mike laughed.

They walked down the mall, avoiding baby strollers and shoppers with too many bright carrier bags. Every store seemed to be for chicks: clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry. Dean recognized the chain store where he’d found the jelly bracelets he and Sam still wore. They’d been all the rage in Cookeville, Tennessee, last spring—but only two, and they came in three-packs. So he’d given the extra one to Sam. Here, instead of the jellies, the place had a huge display of extra ear piercings for girls.

“Mom, c’n I get my ear pierced?” Mike asked.

“Not until you’re thirteen,” she said. 

“But Dad said—”

“Your father doesn’t get to make this decision, Michael,” Ms. Stakowski said tightly. Dean felt like he and Sam should have moved a step away.

“Toystore!” Sam exclaimed, pointing.

“Yup,” Ms. Stakowski confirmed. “How about I give you guys fifteen minutes in there, while I run into the salon for my hair stuff?”

They took off without any more encouragement.

The store was a mess. It looked like a whole brigade of miniature tanks had swept through, dumping everything from the third shelf down onto the floor. The staff were gamely trying to restock with a dead look in their eyes quite the opposite of their pasted-on smiles and cheery greetings of, “Happy Holidays.” The line to pay wound all the way through the store. The only way to look around was to thread through and between the parents and the toys.

“Dean! It’s the one I want!” Sam called. Dean came around the corner to see Sam holding up a Transformer almost half as big as he was.

“Put it back, Sam.”

“But—”

“You can’t afford it. You’ve only got fourteen dollars. ’Sides, give Santa a chance.” It kinda felt bad lying to Sam. Not about Santa, but about the present. One look at the size of that monster toy and Dean knew Dad would never go for it. Not even if the trunk were completely empty.

Sam pouted, but put the toy down.

“Look, go play with the action figures. They probably need someone to help hang them all back on the right hooks.”

Sam held his gaze, then seemed to hear Dean’s unspoken plea to drop it and shrugged. 

“Okay.” He turned the corner. Dean looked at the Transformer again. No way. Not only was it ginormous, it was expensive, too. Triple no way.

He found a matchbox that looked like it would make a good Secret Santa present. He plucked out his wallet to check the name on his slip. And groaned. It was Jill. Jill Hingenberg was his Secret Santa. He had no freaking idea what to get a girl. He’d never considered ever wanting to. Dean looked at the matchbox car: a 1968 Camaro. He put it back on the hook. With a sigh, he decided he’d have to brave the pink aisle.

Mike found him scowling at a hundred different Barbies. “S’up?” he asked.

Dean held out the slip. “No clue, man,” he said. “We could ask Sam. He’s practically a girl, anyway. Where is he?”

They wove back through the line, ignoring the glares of hurried, haggard parents clutching plastic and cardboard boxes.

Sam had found a video game display and was focused on the controls. “Sam, c’mon. Need your opinion.” Dean slapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. Sam turned, causing the joystick to veer to the right. His video car crashed into the spectator stands. Sam tsked angrily at the game, but then it registered that Dean had asked him for help. He trotted happily along at Dean’s side…until they turned and were faced with unrelenting pink. Sam tsked again and huffed.

“You suck, Dean,” he said.

“Look, Cabbage Patch dolls, Samantha. See where you came from?”

“Why’re you being mean? I haven’t _done_ anything.”

“Just a matter of time.”

“You’re showing off for Mike, that’s all.” Sam pointed beyond him to Mike.

“No, I’m—” Dean shut his mouth in a frown. Mike was grinning at him and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. He turned back to make it up to Sam. But Sam was stomping away. Mike shrugged at Dean.

“You said he’s kinda bitchy—”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. “He’s my brother, not yours.”

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled. He looked at his feet.

“Yeah, okay. Come on. Dolls are dumb,” Dean said. He tapped Mike’s arm and led the way out to the front.

“There you are!” Ms. Stakowski called from the entrance. “Where’s Sam?”

It took a minute to find him. This time, he’d taken himself to the far corner of the store, where the games and puzzles were. “Hey, Sam. Did you find anything you want?” Ms. Stakowski asked.

Sam shrugged. “Nothing I can _afford_ ,” he said, looking at Dean snidely.

“Dude, it’s not my fault we got no money,” Dean told him. He willed Sam to hear his apology.

“Well, cheer up. Maybe Santa will bring you what you saw today.”

Sam’s lip trembled. Dean felt his eyes getting wider as he watched. _Please_ , he prayed, _don’t be a crybaby in front of other people. Don’t be a punk-ass bitch._

But Sam didn’t cry. He stood up and took Ms. Stakowski’s arm to lead her away a few steps. Dean saw her lean down so Sam could say something into her ear. Dean’s brow furrowed and he crossed his arms. He shrugged at Mike.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mike asked.

“Beats me.” But he suspected, and his suspicion bothered him. Was Sam telling Ms. Stakowski that Dean had been mean to him? That would be totally uncool—odd even for Sammy—especially to someone they barely knew. Was he just bitching about his Transformer? Probably. That was more classic Sam behavior. Unless….

Ms. Stakowski led Sam back over, stepping around a woman with a Cabbage Patch doll clutched firmly to her chest. At least this time she didn’t try to take Sam’s hand. 

“Sam thought of something he’d like to do, and I suppose both of you will consider yourselves too grown up for it.” She pouted at Mike. “But I told him I’d ask anyway. So, you two feel like going to see Santa Claus?”

Mike snorted, apparently not bothering in the least bit to conceal his disdain. “Mom, we’re way too old for Santa.”

Dean fought to keep his embarrassment off his face. “Lemme talk to Sam—I mean, can we have a second alone, please?”

“Sure. We’ll head back outside. I wouldn’t mind a moment with Michael, myself.” Her hand fell on Mike’s shoulder and from the way she said his full name, Mike was in for a tongue-lashing. Not that anyone’s lectures could measure up against one of Dad’s.

Dean gave them a couple paces to get out of earshot. Sam’s hands were tight little fists at his sides, as if ready for Dean to take a pot shot at him. He was practically vibrating. Dean took a deep breath, wanting to get at the answer to his question, but not wanting to widen the rift he’d already opened up between them. “Sammy—”

“Don’t tease me, Dean. I mean it. I got my reasons.” Sam uncurled one white-knuckled fist to jab a finger at Dean. He drew his hand back jerkily, like he wasn’t sure where to put it. It landed on the sleeves of his coat, which Dean had tied around his waist. 

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to upset you before, Sammy. Really. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam’s other fist relaxed and he played absently with the string on his idiot mittens.

“Cool. But—Santa? I’m not teasing!” he added quickly to keep Sam from exploding again, because Sam looked up angrily. “I just don’t get it. Why the heck d’you want to see Santa, Sam?”

“R’you mad?”

“No. Mortified by my big baby of a kid brother,” he continued through a wink, “but not mad. Just curious. What’s up?”

Sam shrugged. “Well…I haven’t mailed my letter yet. An’ it’s getting pretty close. An’ Kris in my class said Santa had deputies at the mall. Dean, I know that Transformer is pretty expensive. So I figure I gotta make sure Santa knows that I don’t care if I get anything else—that way, maybe Dad can go in on it together with him, or something.”

Dean shook his head. “You are _such_ a freak.”

“Why?”

“You’re like the only kid on the planet, I bet, who’d suggest that Saint Nick and Dad go halvsies on a present. Whatever.” He hitched his arm over to tell Sam to follow him. Sam caught his wrist.

“Is it a dumb idea?”

Dean put his hand over Sam’s, twisted him into a lock, and gave him noogies. “No dumber than when you decided we could hide that cat from Dad.”

“I didn’t know he’s allergic!” Sam insisted, dancing away toward the store entrance.

Dean took his time following. Just the tiny bit of sparring had winded him a little. Which was just wrong. But they’d barely got started shopping and now Sam had this harebrained scheme. He didn’t want to ruin the trip for everyone just because he needed a breather.

The other three were standing by a potted plant when he came out of the store.

“Okay,” Ms. Stakowski said. “Here’s what I thought: the Workshop doesn’t let kids stay in line by themselves, so Sam and I can wait together and you two can go check out Spencer’s.”

“Alone?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. Make sure you have enough before you buy anything. Remember sales tax.”

“How much is it here?” Dean asked.

“Six percent. That’s—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, “six cents on top of every dollar.” He remembered the first time he’d bought groceries by himself. Dad had left him money and explained that most food didn’t have a tax, but sometimes it did. That hadn’t helped much, because apart from being something that made the Pilgrims throw a tea party and then start the Revolution, Dean didn’t know what a tax was. But he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Dad by asking. So he’d taken the few dollars Dad gave him and went to the Minimart up the street for cereal and peanut butter and stuff. He’d added up his purchases to the _penny_ , so when the cashier rang it all up, Dean had been incensed to see a total nearly fifty cents higher than he’d calculated. He’d argued with the cashier, who’d shrugged. “Sales tax, kid.”

“But it’s food!”

“Still taxed here. Sorry, son. You could just put something back that will cover the tax.” He indicated the Hostess pies Dean had decided to get as a treat. In the end, Dean had put back one can of Ravioli and kept the Hostess snacks.

Ms. Stakowski suggested that Dean and Mike go to Spencer’s to shop and if they finished before she and Sam did, they should come to the Workshop to find them. “Or can you stand to be seen there?” she teased.

Mike and Dean both rolled their eyes. “I guess so,” Dean allowed.

“Could we go to the arcade?” Mike asked. That made Dean smile. Way better idea; he hadn’t known there was an arcade in the mall.

Ms. Stakowski licked her lip. “Do you still have any tokens from last time?” she asked Mike. 

Mike nodded. 

“ _With_ you?” she pressed.

Mike dug into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of arcade plugs. “I got’em out this morning,” he said proudly.

Dean could tell Ms. Stakowski didn’t really want them to go to the arcade, but she was running out of ammunition against Mike’s barrage. She turned to him.

“Dean? How about you?”

Dean shrugged. “Dad gave us a little money to spend. I can change a buck or two.” He felt a little bad joining Mike in his mutiny, but the arcade was infinitely preferable to standing in line for Santa.

“Okay, well, let’s go by and see what the line’s like. You two can go to Spencer’s from there.”

“Okay, Sam?” Dean asked pointedly.

“Fine,” Sam said. To anyone watching—Mike or his Mom—Sam seemed perfectly okay. Dean watched him carefully for any sign to the contrary. Sam smiled his #3: _I’m fine in public but you owe me._ Dean could live with that. He’d been an asshole, Sam had called him on it, and Sam was right. Dean decided that if he won any toys or anything, he’d share; that would fix any lingering hard feelings.

They moved toward the mall center. The tree at the central crossing was gigantic, which almost made up for how kitschy the rest of it appeared. From this angle, they could see the entrance and exit, but had a sideways view of Santa; they couldn’t see much of the decorative pathway, which in Dean’s opinion was just as well.

“Ugh,” Ms. Stakowski said as they came up to the little board indicating the approximate wait time. “Tell you what, Sam: you wanted to go to the bookstore?”

“Yeah, sure!” Sam chirped.

“Well, why don’t we all do that first and I can get a magazine. This line looks brutal.”

“Mom, can’t Dean and I go on _now_? We don’t want to look at dumb old books.”

She sighed. “Okay. It’s 1:15. If we don’t find you at Spencer’s, or the arcade, by 2:00, come back to the Workshop and see how we’re doing. Then we’ll get lunch.”

They took off. Between the noise of the display, the muzak, and the kids in line, they barely heard her shout, “Behave yourselves!” in their wake.


	13. Chapter 13

John wasn’t supposed to wear his wristwatch, but he did anyway, and checked it about a hundred times during the shift. He knew every time that only five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes max had gone by. He couldn’t help it. He still checked. 

He checked it again. Only one-fifteen. Still nothing on the blonde ghost, which was both good and bad. 

“…And a sled!” the youngster in his lap finished.

“Ho-ho…well, we’ll see. That’s quite a list,” John chortled. The kid had been going on for over five minutes. “If you had to pick one special present, which would you want?”

“Uh…the remote controlled car. No—wait! The K’nex set.”

“Okay. Got it.” Then he pointed to the camera. “Let’s get your picture so I’ll remember….”

And on to the next. Between each child, as Stacy or Kate walked them out for their candy cane, John scanned the crowds and glanced at the edges of the tree. Sitting here, the darn thing was practically behind him, so the others had a much better view of it than he did.

His hat was hot, the wig itchy underneath it. His back complained that it wanted him to do something active, so after dispatching the next darling (a girl, with a list of three top-line Barbie accessories—and a pony), he gave Stacy the universal “Timeout” signal to hold off for a second. He stood up and waved a little bit to the line. It reminded him of some of the stories Mary’d told him about her (very) brief foray into beauty pageants. The right way to wave. The only thing that made it tolerable was the excitement of the kids when he acknowledged them. Besides, he could peer into the display better when standing. Still no sign of the blonde, but he did spy a dad arriving at the arch with a lit cigarette.

He beckoned Stacy over. Of all the young women working here, John figured Stacy had some of the best potential, even though he’d only just met her that morning. Her reputation already preceded her. Kate assured him that Stacy had an innate sense of how to keep children from melting down. Masters had even praised her during his interview. They weren’t exaggerating. She was quick-minded, no-nonsense, but the kids all responded well to her and she had a great way of connecting with them. So far, she had missed nothing. 

Stacy came forward, repeating the timeout sign to Kate to hold the next child another moment. As she stepped up, her dark eyebrows asked the question for her.

“Guy coming into the line is smoking,” John said quietly. “Tell the others to let him through. I want to see if it flushes our grouse.”

“’Zat wise?” Stacy asked.

“We’re not getting anywhere playing it quiet.”

“Okay.” Stacy ran a hand over her hair, which was tightly wrapped in dozens of twists.

It was a change of plan and a risk with all the kids around, but John was getting antsy. Always was his worst problem, even back in his Rifle Corps days. Still, he’d rather get a glimpse of the mystery lady himself, get a better idea what she was.

“If she shows, have someone make him either move away or put it out.”

A flicker of planning crossed Stacy’s face. “Got it. Ready?”

John nodded. “Ho-ho-ho,” he said tonelessly. As she nodded to Kate, John segued into an actual “Santa” laugh. 

He didn’t hear the little girl’s requests because his eyes were fixed on the red dot of fire at the tip of the man’s cigarette. The guy sucked peacefully for a few seconds. “C’mon,” John breathed. “C’mon.”

“Santa?” the little girl—did Kate say her name was Jeannie or Joanie?—was looking at him dubiously. Her eyebrows were disappearing under her bangs.

“Ho-o…c’mon…is that all you want this year?”

“Um…world peace?” Her finger drifted toward her mouth. 

John laughed, quickly amending it to his “Santa” chortle. “Good girl. Should we take a picture? Okay….”

By the time the flash cleared, John saw that Andy had approached the guy and was asking him to put out the cigarette. And that instant, John heard the voice in his head, the one that told him maybe his idea wasn’t so fucking brilliant.

It was never his, that voice. It used to be his Lieutenant’s; for a while, it belonged to Mary. More recently it was Daniel Elkins’ voice warning him that he was about to cock up something important. Even though he and Daniel hadn’t spoken in over a year.

Right now, the Daniel in his mind was asking how the hell Saint Nick was going to do anything about a ghost, in front of all those kids. He’d told the others to be ready to get all the spectators away, but what would be more likely was a general alarm. And if there were an altercation between Andy and this dude? John would hold himself responsible.

Consequently, he was somewhat relieved when the guy amiably stubbed out his smoke and tucked it back in his pocket for later. John recognized it as the telltale gesture of a veteran—in the jungle, you never knew when you’d need to suck in some tar, or when you’d get the chance.

On the other hand, averting the smoker meant his quarry would likely also remain a no-show. John watched the guy disappear into the pathway. Just then a short-haired blonde and her young son came through the arch. She juggled her coat to one arm and dug in a Waldenbooks bag for a new magazine. The boy had his coat sleeves tied around his waist, but he fidgeted with the mittens that stuck out of the cuffs. As the mother flipped open her periodical, John lost the kid behind a reindeer.

Kate brought him Brianna, Joe, two Kaylees, a pair of twins whose names, he thought she said, were Darla and Carla, and three Michaels. “Still no blonde bombshell,” she muttered when she brought up a girl whom she identified as Patty Ann. “And I’m taking a trip to the little elf’s room after this. Stacy’s covering.”

“Roger,” John said.

“No, Patty,” Patty Ann giggled, climbing into his lap.

After two more children, John stood again, to stretch, wave, and scan the perimeter. The line was still steady, but it had dropped off in volume. Wait times were down to about ten minutes. He noticed Magazine Mom and…and her son, about three customers back. John blinked. Her child was a dead ringer for Sammy. Something about the way the kid was standing, holding himself ready and constantly checking his six, made him conspicuous. Everyone else in line was holding their kids’ hands, but her son’s hands were continually in motion, anxiously working the mittens and particularly the string—Dean would have called them idiot mittens. Other kids were keeping up a near-constant chatter, too, but the little boy was taciturn, only his shift from foot to foot betraying his nerves.

When Stacy pulled the next youngster out to escort her, the line shifted forward. Magazine Mom looked up at him and asked a question. The son let go of his mittens guiltily. He shook his shaggy head and blinked to clear the bangs from his eyes…and John’s jaw went slack. The nervous tics and his unnatural quiet made sense now. Magazine Mom lifted her head to consider his answer and John realized he knew who she was, too. He just hadn’t recognized her without earmuffs and coat.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” John said.

~*~

Stacy brought “Lana” up to him with a stern expression. His voice must have carried despite the musak and crowds and all the animated cacophony.

“Give Santa just one second, okay, Lana?” John asked. He guided her to stand to the side of the armchair. Then he stood so that he was facing Stacy, his back more or less to the front of the line.

“Listen. Don’t make it obvious, but the second kid in line, with the hair in his eyes?”

“Quiet little fella?” Stacy murmured back. She never flinched, didn’t even start to turn around. John felt an almost paternal flush of pride for her—the others hadn’t been lying about Stacy’s ability to keep her cool.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I wasn’t expecting to see him in this…context. But he’s my son.”

Stacy’s wide eyes were the only visible sign of her shock. “Your wife—”

“No, not my wife. She’s my other boy’s classmate’s mother. She brought them shopping today, but I didn’t think Sammy would want to come see Santa Claus.”

“Okay, John. Chill. He’s just a kid like any of the others,” Stacy told him calmly. “Does he believe in Santa, even? Was this his idea, you think, or hers?”

“Sam? Let someone else talk him into something he doesn’t want to do?” John crossed his arms, which was difficult with the bulky jacket. “Not likely.”

Lana’s father cleared his throat impatiently. He was the smoker from earlier, John noticed. John held up a white-gloved finger toward the guy. “Look, just…don’t let on,” he said quickly to Stacy. “But after you get him up here, tell the photographer I want a copy of that picture.”

“You got it,” Stacy assured him.

“Sorry, Lana, sweetheart,” John said in his deep voice. “Santa had to make sure Mrs. Claus has enough candy canes for everyone. Now, let’s talk Christmas.”

Between Lana and the next child, John made sure to tug his hat and wig down a little better. He fussed one of the wig’s forelocks over the scar on his temple and smoothed the beard across his jaw. By the time James—or Jason?—was finished, John could feel his heart jackrabbitting. He hadn’t been this nervous since…probably since his first real hunt. _Jesus, Winchester,_ he told himself, hearing Harvelle’s broad laughter in his head. _He’s just a seven-year-old. You can take him._

Stacy walked beside Sam (John wasn’t surprised that Sam wouldn’t hold her hand) and winked at John as she escorted the youngster up the two low steps. Ordinarily, the elves said something including the child’s name to give “Santa” some clue, but Stacy just said, “Well, here he is…you can give it to him.”

“Give me what?”

Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s my letter,” he said solemnly. “For Santa. The real one, I mean. I know you’re just his deputy.”

_Ah, the deputy line,_ John thought. He’d encountered that one a number of times already this season. He grinned. “Are you so sure of that, Samuel?” he asked in a booming voice.

Sam didn’t miss much. He looked at Stacy, who was smiling. “He _did_ know my name!” he said to her in amazement.

“Of course I did,” John said, warming to the fiction when he was playing it up for his own boy. “Well, come on over here, climb up, and let’s see whether you believe in me or not.”

Sam came closer, but seemed wary of getting on John’s lap. Before he unfolded his letter, John covered his hand with his gloved one. “Hang on…you _do_ believe that I’m the real Santa, not just a deputy?”

Sam thought about it, the way Sam always thought about things. Carefully. “Well…I’m not sure how you know my name. But Kris says the ones in the mall are deputies. I believe in Santa,” he said hurriedly, “I…just…. How _did_ you know my name?”

“Ho, ho—how would you like to be able to tell Kris that you got to talk to the _real_ Santa?”

“But—”

“Well,” John said, anticipating his son’s confusion, “You see, your friend is partly right. I do have deputies all over the world. But every day I go to a different place and I meet children like you, to hear for myself what they want.”

“So I lucked out?” Sammy asked.

“Ho-ho-ho…you could say that.”

“Okay,” Sam said, and he squinted suspiciously at his father. “Prove it.”

John smiled proudly behind his false beard. That was his skeptic. “I bet I know the top three things on your list without you telling me.”

Sam gaped, then his eyes narrowed again. “What’re the stakes?” he asked shrewdly.

“Stakes? Well, if I’m right about the presents you want, you believe me. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. What if you’re wrong?”

John fought not to snort. “Dean’s giving you lessons on gambling, I see,” he quipped.

Sam took a step backward. “How d’you know about Dean?”

“Told you, I’m really Santa,” John claimed.

Sam chewed on that for a full minute, giving John a sidelong glance with his mouth half-open. John threw in an incentive.

“Okay, if I’m wrong…I’ll make sure you get everything on your list.”

“Everything?”

“Well…everything within reason.”

“You sound like my Dad,” Sam grumbled.

John swallowed. “Ho…well, we’ve met.”

“Huh.”

“So? What do you say?” he prodded. Pushing Sam to act meant risking being made, but he had no choice; the line was backing up again. 

At last Sam thrust out his right hand. “Okay.” They shook and Sam finally allowed himself up on John’s knee.

“Hm. So. You look like you want…Transformers.”

This job came with its downsides. In the last two weeks in this gig, more times than John could count, he’d felt silly, embarrassed, frustrated, or all three. Sam’s look of total rapture was worth suffering through every single humiliating moment.

~*~

The moment had to be brief, however, because John hadn’t been exaggerating: the number of children waiting had nearly doubled since Sam had been with him.

Stacy took Sam away too soon, yet not soon enough for John. He couldn’t quite believe Sam hadn’t caught him, didn’t see through the costume. He was lucky Dean hadn’t been with Sam. As it was, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d have been able to maintain the illusion in close quarters. But one thing about Sam he could count on was that what Sam believed, he believed to his core. He believed it all the way to the moon. And proof was just fuel for Sam’s high-powered intellectual rocket ships. John wondered whether he’d just bought another year or two of innocence for Sam.

Meanwhile, the stream of children continued. Kate asked, “What was all that about?” when she brought the next tot and Stacy took her break.

“Tell you later,” John said with a dismissive headshake.

About fifteen minutes later, John spotted Andy speaking to another father who was striking a match.

“Heck yes, I mind putting it out,” the guy said loudly. “There’s no law yet!”

“Here we go,” John said. He caught Kate’s eye and motioned with his eyes only toward the growing ruckus. Kate nodded and circumvented the line to make her way around. Cindy took over for her.

Stacy was just coming back from her break. John had a perfect view from his throne, but had a lisping four-year-old on his lap. He paid attention with one ear, while the altercation grew more belligerent below. Stacy stepped in to intercede.

John couldn’t hear what the girls were saying; only the man’s responses were loud enough to carry.

“Hey, girlie, last thing I need is some little mall monkey tellin’ me what I can and can’t do.”

Kate reached the small group. 

“Children?” the guy said at volume. Sounded to John like he was repeating Kate’s last work. “Children! No shit, lady—that’s why we’re here, ain’t it?”

Kate nodded and firmly pointed back out the entrance archway.

“You don’t have the balls, bitch.”

John stood up. He handed the toddler off to Cindy and cordoned off the line himself. “It’s all right, kids,” he said to the front of the line. “Santa just has to make an early coal delivery.” He took the short cut and the hairpin turn to go back in through the entrance, coming up on the group.

Stacy had taken a step back to let Kate do the talking. She looked about ready to call the NAACP on his racist ass. The man’s child hung back, while he was getting in Kate’s face. As John approached, several parents decided to leave, perhaps to return later, perhaps not. They pushed past the small knot. When jostled, the guy tensed up. No doubt about it, he was spoiling for a fight. John moved closer.

“We can call security,” Kate was saying, “but I think we’d all prefer—”

“Yeah, sure, call security on me. For taking my kid to see Santa.”

“Way I see it,” John said moderately, “you got three choices, here: you can step out for your nic fix and come on back when you’re not jonesing, or you can force us to call security and have you removed.”

Idiot stared at John like John couldn’t count. “You said three choices.”

“Yeah.”

“That was two. Wass’ the third?”

“You can try lighting that cheroot and then have to explain to your son there why Santa Claus personally kicked your ass off the North Pole.”

John wasn’t sure what he wanted to have happen next. He didn’t want any bystanders hurt, and he didn’t want to leave the whole operation stalled for long, but a small part of him wanted an excuse to knock this bozo senseless. An equally impatient part of him wanted his mystery guest to make her appearance so he could get a look at her.

Everyone was silent—even the next people in line were watching intently, nervously. The musak suddenly seemed very loud in John’s ears. It was _O Tannenbaum_ again. A thought prickled in the back of his head. Before it could properly form, the jackass pointedly pulled out his lighter, flicked it with his thumb, and held it to the end of his cigarette. He took a deep drag and got a good flame burning.

John reached for the guy’s collar to manhandle him away. The man held up the cigarette both as a banner and as if to burn John if he came at him. John batted the hand away like a gnat and grabbed the jerk’s jacket lapel. He twisted him into an arm lock while the man’s other hand flailed and tried to get close to John’s face with the cigarette. John grabbed his wrist and walked him forward two steps.

“Oh my God…” Kate said. “John—there!” she pointed toward the tree.

If John had been sitting at his post, he’d never have seen her. But the apparition before them was clearly standing in the branches, coexisting in the same space. Her hair was straw-like, long, but dry, falling to her waist in chunky clumps rather than a smooth cascade. Her skin was the color of old parchment and it looked cracked, brittle. Though her body looked youthful, slender, and perfect like a dancer, her face was lined. Tears streaked her cheeks like slicks of brown oil.

He let go of the guy, propelling him forward and away. It seemed he was as mesmerized by the vision as John, because he didn’t even try to attack, just stood there in mute wonder. John cleared his throat. “Everyone get back,” he said, but they ignored his order and continued to stare.

The little tripod-mounted speakers crackled, interrupting the holiday musak, and a woman’s voice spoke through it. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. We regret that due to Fire Marshall regulations, we must close this area temporarily. Please proceed calmly to whichever exit is closest and we apologize for the inconvenience.”

John promised himself that he’d take Gina Tupelo out to lunch when this was all over. 

Unfortunately, her announcement didn’t produce an orderly evacuation. The few parents who’d sensed trouble and had begun pushing their way back to the entrance now really pressed upon those who had remained. People in the middle tried going both ways and their children got shuffled. Stroller wheels rolled over people’s feet as parents tried to make tight turns or push past each other. Kids were crying and their parents weren’t in much better shape. And as a mother and her three children rushed toward the entrance and past John and the man with his lit cigarette, she knocked into him. His cigarette tumbled out of his hand and sailed into the center of the display…right next to the end of the paper streamer that wound around the archway.

It went up in a flash. The not-so-orderly and somewhat-confused exodus turned to panic within about fifteen seconds. The kids who’d been crying were now screaming. The parents who’d been pushing with determination, but some politeness, now simply escaped with their children any way they could. Someone fell and no one stopped to help.

John was already moving toward the flame in search of a way to beat it out. He wondered how long it would take for the sprinklers to kick in, how many people might get hurt. As he cast about for something to use to put out the fire, he glanced up at the tree. The woman screeched horribly and the next thing John saw, the smoker was airborne. He landed about twenty feet away, hitting the mall directory sign on his impact.

John reached up above the flames and pulled the cardboard front off the arch. He stomped on the cardboard on the ground. Then he pulled down the wait time sign and used it to beat the flames that were still working their way into the cotton batting and plastic confetti that served as snow. Dimly, he heard the efforts of Andy, Cindy, Ellie, and Kate to get people to safety. Gina was shouting at people through the loudspeaker to come out through the decorations and not to trample each other.

John ripped the beard, wig, and hat off his head, both because it was hot and for better peripheral vision. He cast about to get a bead on the ghost. She had disappeared. He whirled around. Across the perimeter, he saw a crowd of people—onlookers, mixed with those who had trampled the display to get out on that side. A small person burst through the crowd, followed by a taller boy, a third boy, and a woman: Dean, Sam, and the Stakowskis, John realized.

“DEAN!” he shouted. “GET OUT OF HERE! YOU AND SAM—OUT! _NOW!_ ”

Despite the chaos, his voice cut through the atrium echoes. Dean’s head snapped around toward the sound. But he stood frozen, staring at John.

“GET AWAY, DEAN, GO!” John bellowed, pointing to the side farthest from both fire and the spirit’s last known location.

Dean took Sam’s hand and tugged him away, forcing Monica and Mike to follow.

There was a pop and a whooshing sound to John’s left. A white mist filled the area. The haze had its own smell, like cordite and stale air. Carbon dioxide. John coughed. He stomped on a few more embers before they could creep back into full force.

Stacy swept the entrance with the fire extinguisher from the Kitchen. The fire was out, but the people were still running away and pushing through the crowds that had gathered. Around them, though, there was a moment of stillness. “Oh, good,” she said, surveying the dissipating cloud and the charred remains of the gate. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to it before the—”

The sprinklers went off.

Gina came up to them, her hair plastering to her cheeks and turning the color of steel. “John! I’m sorry—I thought I’d better clear the area—”

“It’s okay—it’s my fault—I should have realized the crowds would panic.”

“They didn’t panic until the arch caught fire!” Stacy said, with so much venom John wondered whether she’d been possessed. “I hope the cops arrest that cracker.”

“On what charge?” John mused. “We caused the stampede.”

“Psh. Creating a public nuisance, for a start. White supremacist bastard. If he hadn’t put up a fuss, there wouldn’t have been no stampede.”

“Did you see your culprit?” Kate came bounding up to them, oblivious of the way the spray molded her elf costume to her shapely curves. “She’s freaky.”

“Didn’t look that old when I saw her the other day,” Stacy said. She headed toward the kitchen and relative shelter. They followed.

Gina had started to cry. They sat her down at the table. “Poor Lyle. He’s been gone sixteen hours, if that, and we’ve ruined the whole operation.”

“Look on the bright side: Now, the company will have to buy new decorations.”

“John…were those your sons?” Stacy asked. “Are they okay?”

“Your sons?” Kate asked. “Oh—that boy you spent so much time with, was that your son?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “So much for that picture. I think Marie’s camera will be pretty water-logged. And yeah, I saw them make a run for it. I’ll find’em once they shut the water off.”

They waited inside, hoping the sprinklers would turn off quickly. Before that happened, mall security and the Fire Department showed up. Gina excused herself to talk to them. John trailed after her to assess the damage, even though it was still raining inside. Kate and Stacy joined him.

The crowds had all rushed for other areas of the mall, where the sprinklers hadn’t activated. As a result, the three of them—Kate, Stacy, and John—were left in a surprisingly soothing quiet. The sprinklers shut down, though they were still dripping in places.

A different recording of _O Tannenbaum_ cycled through in the musak. John cringed. It seemed like the two aspects of his life were forever impinging upon one another. He needed to get square here so he could go find Sam and Dean and make sure they were all right.

“Well, at least the water’s good for one part of this god-awful spectacle.”

“Huh?” John asked. He looked down at his suit—it weighed about fifteen pounds more now that it was soaked. So much for his deposit. “What could possibly be good about drenching everything in the center of the mall?”

“The tree. It’s getting a freshening up.”

John turned and took in the massive tree anew. “But it’s plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Like everything else in the display, it’s fake…right?”

Kate and Stacy both giggled. John took it for post-traumatic relief.

“Are you kidding?” Stacy asked. “With all that timber on our doorstep? This is Michigan, not Alabama!”

“Every year they bring in a prize fir, fresh from the pine forest, John,” Kate explained. “It’s the pride of the mall, that tree.”

“It’s real?” Lyle had said everything was fifteen years old. John had taken that to mean _everything_. He’d never taken a close enough look at the tree to tell that the pine needles were natural. Suddenly John’s blood sounded loud in his own ears. He felt his breath speed up. His palms itched with new sweat. He felt like a teenager about to dance with a pretty girl for the first time.

“Yeah…what?” Stacy sobered when she saw John’s expression.

“So…it’s dying.”

“Yeah,” Kate sighed. “It’s sad, but—”

“No, you don’t get it,” John said intensely, grabbing her shoulders and giving them a little shake. “It’s real. And it’s dying. That. That changes everything.” He looked up and let the last drips from the sprinklers fall on his face. “I don’t know how I missed it. But I know what I’m looking for now. I think. I can fix this. I can fix it!” He rushed off toward the lockers. After dicking around so long, it was a relief to have a solid lead. He only wished he’d put it together sooner.


	14. Chapter 14

“Dean! Dean!” Sammy’s high voice cut through all the electronic clamor of the arcade. He was already calling his brother’s name before he’d figured out where to start looking for him.

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean breathed. He had to force himself not to look around for his brother, keep his eye on the screen. He’d lasted nearly 25 minutes on a single token. He had only three fights left before his final bonus round and he was within 5,000 points of the top ten. Luckily, Sam’s cries sounded more like elation than distress, which was more than could be said about the griping that trailed after him as he pushed his way through the aisles.

“Dean! Just wait ‘til you hear! You’ll never believe it!” 

Dean twitched at the total dorkitude of Sam’s excitement (and the accompanying chorus of comments about Sam’s dorkitude) and his timing got off. He missed the punch. “Crap.” He got back into his rhythm on the kick, but he was running out of health and needed a power-up if he was going to get through the level.

“Dean!” Sammy spied him and came running. “Dean! It was amazing—he really was Santa!”

“Hey, douchebag, quitcher racket—tryna play here,” a large boy at the next game to the right said menacingly. Sam had brushed past him, but now froze. He must have backed away from the kid’s machine, because Dean felt Sam’s hair brush up against his arm for a second before Sam gave him space to work the buttons.

“Leave m’brother alone,” Dean said evenly, without looking away from his screen. Adon was almost down for the count. Just a little more and he’d be done with the match. 

The big kid abandoned his joystick—though from the sound of it, his game may have tanked before he released the controls—and stepped in. “Or you’ll what, pipsqueak?”

Dean delivered a final karate chop and Adon dropped for good. He could take a short break now, during the animation. He took stock of Sammy first, noting that his chatter had stopped instantly, as much because of the other kid’s complaint as to wait for Dean to clear the level. But Sam was smart enough not to turn his back on the bully, and he kept his weight on the balls of his feet, like Dad had taught them, so he could move quickly if Dean needed him to. Just the fact that he’d clammed up so suddenly betrayed his concern about getting either of them into a fight, but his stance confirmed that this kid scared him a little.

Dean looked up at the source of the insult—way up. Sam’s would-be tormentor had to have six inches on Dean, not to mention about 30 pounds. He was older, too, probably fourteen at least. He wore a ball cap backward over short hair, a single diamond earring in his left ear, and a football jersey over low-slung jeans and designer sneakers. 

Dean couldn’t help letting his eyebrows rise a little at the sight of the dude. He wished Mike had hung around a little longer instead of deciding to take his tokens up to the counter for a prize. A third body would have helped the intimidation factor. Sam sure knew how to pick them.

Without hesitation, Dean pivoted away from the console to put himself between Sam and the bully. Sam took a step backward to give him room, disappearing behind him. Dean squared his shoulders and fixed the huge kid with his Clint Eastwood squint. “Or I’ll drag your ass outside and leave you head first in a snowbank.”

Ninety percent of any confrontation was won by establishing one’s dominance right off the bat. It may not have worked on Mrs. Fontana, but Dean could tell from his eyes the moment the teenager flinched. Dean drew himself up taller.

The teen didn’t know that he was already beat, though. He made a grab for Dean’s collar. Dean dodged. The bully lurched forward. Dean swung himself around, but by then, Sammy had found a grown-up.

“See? He’s attacking m’brother,” Sammy accused.

The adult had on an apron over his button-down shirt and chinos. His nametag said “Terry, Gen. Manager” and he clearly knew the kid. “Sorenson! What’ve I told you about picking on the little kids in here?”

“He’s—”

“He’s what? Three years younger than you?” Terry the General Manager stepped in to place his hand in front of the bully’s chest, blocking him bodily. “Beat it.”

“But—”

“Get the hell outta here, Sorenson,” Terry insisted. He pointed to the open mall with his free hand, pushing slightly with the other one. Sorenson gave ground. He backed up two steps before turning to slink away. The manager sighed. “Sorry, kid. Watch yourself when you leave—he has buddies.”

Dean smirked. “Oh, we’ll be careful out there,” he quoted, palm raised in his best imitation of Sgt. Jablonski.

“Thank you, sir,” Sammy said over Dean’s silliness.

Terry pulled a token out from his pocket. “Here. Your game’s timing out.” He pointed to Dean’s screen, which was counting down. It offered 20 seconds to continue…15….

“Cool, thanks,” Dean said. He was about to put the token in the slot when Sammy touched his hand.

“No, Dean—wait—you gotta come back with me.”

“Sam, I’m not going to watch you play a scene out of _Miracle on 34th Street_.” Ten seconds….

“But—”

“No way, doofus.”

“Dean, he knew what I wanted!” Sam tugged on Dean’s sleeve. The game timed out.

“Sammy! Look what you did,” Dean complained. “So he guessed Transformers, so what?” The game prompted him to enter his initials. “Man, I was about to take first place,” he continued to grumble when he saw his score in the standings.

“Shut up!” Sam fired, arms splaying out to either side. “Who cares about your stupid game, Dean? I’m talking real Santa Claus, here.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why. ’Cause he not _real_? He _is_. He _proved_ it.” Sam’s head bobbled in the way that made him look like a bird, emphasizing his point.

Dean shook his head. “Sammy, it’s just a guy, okay? He made a lucky guess. Not like five out of seven kids want Transformers this year, or anything,” he said under his breath.

“NO!” Sam contended, agitation raising both volume and pitch. “You don’t understand—he knew _your_ name!”

“He what?” Dean stammered. He forgot his annoyance about the interrupted game instantly. This was important—and seriously weird.

“He said your name. I didn’t tell him or anything. He’s the _real_ Santa. He said he goes around and takes one of his deputy’s places every day—an’ I found him!” He tugged Dean’s arm again, all trace of prissy anger gone now that he had Dean’s full attention. “C’mon, I want you to see!”

Dean followed Sam out of the arcade. Ms. Stakowski was waiting with Mike. “There you are!” she said brightly. “I was about to brave going in after you. Then Mike would’ve had to disown me and you two’d be walking home!” She faltered at the look on Dean’s face. “What?”

“I wanna show Dean something, back at the Santa Claus’s Workshop,” Sam told her.

“Uh…okay…” she said. “The, uh…the line was getting really long again, pumpkin, so…you don’t want to go back through it, do you?” she frowned at Dean. “Dean, honey, are you feeling okay? You know, your dad said to bring you home if you were feeling tired.”

Dean recognized that along with real concern, Ms. Stakowski was offering him a way to avoid going on Sam’s wild goose chase. But the idea that a stranger—in the mall of all places—knew enough about them to recognize Sam and put him together with Dean? That made him nervous. If they were in Saginaw, Dean knew, it was so Dad could hunt. And if Dad was hunting, that meant something supernatural in the area—something that might want to hurt Dad…maybe by hurting them.

Common sense told him they should walk the other way and just tell Dad about it later.

But Dean’s instincts—and his curiosity—told him he should check it out himself. That way, he’d be able to give Dad a better report. He could prove to Dad that he knew how to look for the monsters—and how to identify them—without getting hurt.

“Nah,” he told Ms. Stakowski. “I’m okay. Besides, when he gets in a snit like this, he won’t let it go. He’ll just be a whiney little punk until he shows me whatever it is.”

Ms. Stakowski looked like she really didn’t want to go back to the North Pole area, but it was on their way to the A&W in the mall, he remembered from his and Mike’s Recon. 

“Look, we said lunch after, right? So we can go by on the way and Sam can show me what’s got his panties in a bunch.”

“Yeah, Mom. If it doesn’t take too long, A&W may not even be crowded.”

“Okay.”

They fought the tide back toward the center of the mall. Dean really was starting to tucker out, but it wasn’t the walking, or even the people. It was the noise. Between the constant echo of people’s chatter, kids screaming, the water from the various fountains, and the stupid Christmas musak, he was getting a headache.

“Hey, Dean—that’s the song!” Sam said. He sounded surprised.

“Huh?”

“Listen.” Sam cocked his head toward the ceiling. He waited until the music came around and chanted along. “Oat, ann and balm, oat, ann and balm, We troy sint eye ner bladder.”

Dean and Mike both lost it. Sam’s chirpy little voice and the nonsense lyrics combined to make the scene the silliest thing Sam had ever done, and that included the time Dean had caught him letting Carrie Weintraub dress him up as Laura Ingalls when he was three.

Before long Dean noticed: his laughter sounded very loud. The mall around them had grown quiet, right around the time Sam heard the music clearly and sang along to it. People around them had divided into two groups—one rushing away and one heading in, toward the Workshop.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked. No one answered, no matter how much he asked. He took Sammy’s hand and plunged into the crowd of onlookers.

He ducked through and around the adults, tugging Sam after him. He heard Mike close behind and more faintly behind that, Ms. Stakowski excusing herself (and them) for pushing through. At last, he reached the front of what turned out to be a shifting perimeter of spectators around the North Pole. 

He’d been right on both his suspicion and his doubts: There was definitely something going on at Santa’s Workshop that Dad ought to be informed about. And Dad definitely wouldn’t want him or Sammy anywhere near that something. He didn’t particularly want to be near it, himself, but he forced down his old fear.

The archway had caught fire. Compared to the relative silence down the mall pathway, the scene here was extra loud and totally chaotic. It was crazier than his dim memories of that night so many years ago, but the fire itself looked a lot smaller than the one that had consumed their home. And Mom. 

Dean didn’t want to think about that. He focused on taking a professional assessment of the situation, gathering the details to decide whether they needed to bug out immediately or if he could risk staying to put together a better report for Dad. But things were moving so quickly that Dean barely had time to choose. Parents and children were running in every direction to get away, trampling the display decorations to make new paths. The guy working as Santa was trying to put out the flames without much success. While Dean was still processing everyone’s status, a man standing next to “Santa” flew through the air as if an invisible hand had swatted him away. Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder to confirm that he was safe, not about to run out into the mess or anything stupid. 

“Santa’s gonna stop the fire, right?” Sam asked him nervously. Dean nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak.

Someone in red tights and a green tunic ran out of the little shed closest to where Dean and Sam were standing, getting jostled by the escaping crowds. The elf’s bells jingled while she carried a fire extinguisher around to the arch, but the sound was lost amid the noise of fire and frightened shoppers. The man in the Santa suit whipped around, scanning the field and the mob. Something about the way he moved made Dean think of John Wayne.

“Look!” Sam pointed. “See, Dean! There he is. He’s gonna fix it!”

A bunch of people came rushing past Dean, bolting away from the flames. He squirmed sideways with Sam in tow to let them get through. Then, before the hole they’d made could close up again, he ducked back out, back to the front where he could see. By that time “Santa,” who had taken off his hat and wig, saw them standing in the crowd.

“Dean? Sam?” Ms. Stakowski said breathlessly behind them. “Come on, this is no place—”

“It’s okay. Santa knows us,” Sam said, looking up at Dean.

He sure did. Dad didn’t need to be told what was going on at the mall; apparently, Dad already knew. In the next instant, “Santa’s” mouth opened and a booming sound came out. Dean couldn’t understand through the crowd and the fire, but he had a feeling he knew what he was saying, anyway.

Dad waved him off and jabbed a pointing finger away. This time, the sound reached them.

“GET AWAY, DEAN, GO!”

Dad kept waving and yelling. Dean nodded and pulled Sammy to the left, away from the fire. The elf made it around. 

“C’mon, Sammy, we gotta get clear!” Dean said. 

Dean heard the fire extinguisher go off as they retreated. He navigated on auto-pilot around the panicking crowds. He hoped Mike and Ms. Stakowski were behind him, but didn’t dare go back to find them if they weren’t. Dad had given him an order; Dad needed him to get Sam to safety; that was the only thing that mattered.

He’d sort out the incongruity of Dad in a Santa suit later.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam asked. 

“Dunno, but we gotta move.” Everyone else had the same idea, though. They risked getting trampled by the adults stampeding away. “In here,” Dean decided, ducking them into the store nearest to the edge of the crowd. It was a clever choice, even if it was a women’s shoe store. Two seconds later the sprinklers went off in the mall. But the stores were on separate triggers. They stayed dry. The people in the corridor were not so lucky.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Santa sound like Dad?”

“Yes, Sammy,” Dean admitted sadly. He’d hoped Sam hadn’t noticed all that much, with the fire and everything distracting him.

“He kinda looked like him too, without the white hair.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” He sighed. Sam had been watching Santa like a hawk. He should have known that Sam would choose now to be more observant than any other little kid. He probably could have come up with a story to tell, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was too tired to think up a lie. He pushed aside a pair of shoes to sit on the display counter, pulling Sam over beside him. “That’s because it _was_ Dad.”

“Oh.” Sam studied a shoe as if he could x-ray it. A muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched.

Dean waited for Sam to get angry or upset. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Sammy chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. Dean braced himself for the inevitable question. But then Sam looked up with a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me Dad was one of Santa’s deputies?”

Dean laughed. “Sorry, Sammy. Sometimes Dad keeps secrets from me, too.”

~*~

The mall management company convinced Sears and Macy’s to provide towels and changes of clothing to everyone who got caught by the sprinkler system. Police, fire, and EMS arrived. The police wanted to interview everyone involved. John accepted the free clothes, but ducked into the locker room to change to his own old jeans and flannel shirts. At least the Santa boots fit so tightly that he had no water inside them. Every other part of him was drenched.

When he came out, Stacy, Kate, and Gina were all leaving the ladies’ locker room. Kate and Stacy had their own clothes, but Gina wore one of the tracksuits that Macy’s had supplied on short notice.

“Listen,” he told them quietly, “don’t mention ghosts or anything to the cops.”

“Do we look crazy? But what are we supposed to tell them?”

“Just tell them there was a woman where she shouldn’t have been. I’ll handle the rest.”

“John, what’s really going on?” Gina asked.

John shook his head. “I need to check on a couple things and then I can tell you.”

“You said you knew!” Kate accused.

“I think I do; I just want to make sure. Gina, do you think I could get in tonight, after hours?”

“I suppose. I could meet you.”

“Okay.” John wrote down his number in his little notebook and tore the page out. “Gimme yours?” he requested.

Gina simpered. “Why, John, I didn’t think you liked me that way.”

Kate and Stacy giggled with her. John was happy to let them have their joke at his expense, but felt too grim to join in beyond a rueful smile. Once he had the number, he left, conveniently skipping the part where he gave his statement to the cops.

He walked back to the display. The fire, the sprinklers, the bystanders, and the effects of the spirit had pretty well destroyed the place. A news crew was already filming a report for the evening show. There was no sign of the spirit, for the moment. Danger over for the time being, his concern turned back to the boys.

He knew that Dean had heard him. He saw them take off through the mall, so he was sure they were safe from the fire. But had they escaped the water? Had they been jostled, knocked over, or hurt by panicked shoppers? He suspected not, but he’d have liked to know for sure. Of course, he had no way to reach them—and even if they and the Stakowskis had left immediately, they couldn’t be home yet.

So he walked down the mall in the direction he’d last seen Dean go. He never should have let them come in the first place. He’d been so sure that he could keep things under control. He’d imagined that Dean’s adolescent scorn would convince Sam he was too old to come see Santa. Probably, he shouldn’t have played it up so much. He was certain Sam had dragged Dean back so he could show Dean the “real” Santa.

On the other hand, the look on Sam’s face…he wouldn’t have traded that for anything.

He went slowly, checking both sides of the mall for any trace of them.

“Dad!”

His head snapped toward the sound. Sammy was running to him, Dean just a step behind. John saw the way Sam’s legs pumped. He braced for a flying tackle half a second before Sammy launched himself.

“Oof! Hey, champ,” he said, trying not to stagger. “Getting too big for me to catch you like that.”

Sammy was talking over his grumble. “Are you okay? We saw you fighting the fire. What happened? Why—”

“Hey, whoa….” John laughed. He put Sam down. “Are you two okay? You didn’t get wet?”

Sam turned his beaming, toothy smile onto his brother. “Dean pushed us into the shoe store. The sprinklers didn’t go off in there.”

John beckoned Dean over to rest his hand on his shoulder. “Good work, son.” He checked them both for injuries, just to be sure. “How’re you feeling, kiddo?” 

“’M okay,” Dean insisted, though he looked a little pale.

“Dad?” Sammy called. “You were Santa, weren’t you?”

John drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. I’m sorry for tricking you, buddy.”

“That’s okay.”

“It is?” Historically, Sam hated being “lied to” and sometimes had a hard time with the distinction between lies and protection from truth.

“Sure, you’re a hero!” Sam exclaimed, hugging John’s waist. “If you hadn’t’a been there, the whole mall prob’ly woulda burned down.” He stepped back to look up at his father. “Why didn’t you _tell_ us that you’re working as Santa’s deputy, though?” He grinned, practically jumping in excitement. “Now I know where the gifts come from and why he can always find us! And there’s no way, after you saved all those people, that Santa won’t give you Dean’s and my presents, right? As a bonus!”

John was about to reply noncommittally, something to buy himself time to interpret the onslaught of Sammy-logic, but another voice interrupted.

“Sam? Sam Winchester?”

They turned as a unit. Standing in Macy’s-issued clothes, her wet coat over one arm, hair quite bedraggled, was Mrs. Farnsworth.

John smiled, not too friendly, but friendly enough.

“I thought that was you. Mr. Winchester,” she greeted him with a nod. “Are you all all right?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” John answered for them all.

“This must be Dean,” she observed. “How did you all manage not to get wet?”

“The stores are on different triggers,” John commented.

“We just ducked at the right time,” Dean added with a discomfited shrug.

“I see. I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Sam,” she continued, crouching a bit to bring herself to his eye level.

“They came with friends,” John explained He wasn’t sure why Sam’s teacher would be so interested, but perhaps it was just her version of small talk. “Speaking of which, Dean, where did you last see Monica and Mike?”

Dean glanced around. “I…I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t….”

“Not an indictment, son,” John said softly, eyes on Mrs. Farnsworth. She was a sharp one, though not as unholy perceptive as Dean’s teacher, Mrs. Fontana.

Sure enough, Mrs. Farnsworth had noticed the quiet exchange and the wheels appeared to be turning in her head.

Dean’s smile was a little fake. “Guess we should’ve put bells on us instead of the elves, huh, Dad?” he joked in a forced tone.

John simply rolled his eyes. “Well, we should find them. Then I’ll take you home. Excuse—”

At that moment, the loudspeaker in the mall went off. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Attention. Will the following people please come to the information desk: Jeannie Trotten, George Park, Anne Spencer, Becky’s parents, Sam and Dean Winchester….”

John laughed at Dean’s shocked face. “Sounds like Monica’s looking for you, too.”

“Mr. Winchester,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “May I have a word?”

The boys held back. John read their faces, and suddenly, with perfect clarity, he knew that somehow her curiosity was connected to the pageant. It was as if now that the case had come together, he could finally focus on all the things he’d wanted to ask the boys earlier to get to the bottom of Sam’s school issues. Sam himself blinked up at him doe-eyed and innocent. But Dean, for all that he feigned indifference, was far too interested in a private conversation between Sam’s teacher and his father. John saw it in the momentary freeze of Dean’s joints, like an honest person’s instant of shock at the sight of flashing police lights in a rearview. It was a hesitation that said, _Is that because of me?_

John barked, “Boys, hang a second.” Without checking to make sure they would obey, he nodded to Mrs. Farnsworth. “I’d like that, Mrs. Farnsworth.”

Mrs. Farnsworth spared a quizzical glance at Sam, who stood frozen beside Dean. “Well…” she began, obviously a little surprised by the boys’ instant compliance, “…it’s just that…. Would you mind very much clarifying for me…. What brings you to the mall, Mr. Winchester?”

“Work, Mrs. Farnsworth. Was there confusion on that?” he asked, suppressing a flirtatious grin. 

“There’s confusion about Sam, apparently,” she rejoined wryly. “Mr. Winchester, I find it hard to believe that given your… your affiliations, you would work in retail at Christmas time. Let alone that you allowed your sons to come…holiday shopping.”

From the way she stressed the words Christmas and holiday, John had the distinct feeling it was key to Sam’s squirrelishness over the pageant. But he didn’t care to keep talking around the topic, even if he’d had all the time in the world. It was like the teachers in Saginaw had all had an in-service on circumscribing any subject of conversation.

“What affiliations? Mrs. Farnsworth, if there’s a direct question you’re dancing around, I really do wish you’d just ask it.”

“Very well, Mr. Winchester…. I had been told that you are a Jehovah’s Witness and therefore don’t celebrate holidays in any form. Is that true?”

“A Jeho….” John’s jaw slackened and his head bent forward in disbelief. Air forced itself out of his throat in a shocked, half-amused, huff. “Who told you that and how, Mrs. Farnsworth? Did Sammy tell you that?”

“So it’s not true?” she asked sharply.

“No, it’s not true!” It all fell into place. He wiped his forehead angrily. “Dammit, so that’s what that nonsense with Miss Johnson was all about.” He looked heavenward, then noted her expectant gaze still on him. “Look, don’t take it personally. Little scoundrel lied to me, too.” He looked over where the boys were waiting…correction: _had been_ waiting. They must have beat it to escape with Monica. Which meant Dean knew…Dean knew and had covered up for Sam. He looked back at Mrs. Farnsworth with a smile that was anything but pleasant. “The joys of single parenting.” Holding up one finger, he told her, “I think I know where they squirmed off to. Don’t worry, we’ll see you Monday to resolve this.”

_Daddy_. Sam had called him Daddy and he’d fallen for it. Should have tipped him right off. And Dean acting innocent: _“If he’s in something, do we have to go see him?” Christ. Did they think they would get away with it?_

Of course, what really rankled was: they almost did.

He lengthened his stride as he approached the information desk. Monica and Mike stood to one side. Dean and Sam waved and ran up to them. Mike began speaking immediately to Dean. John raised his voice.

“DEAN! SAM!”

They both turned instantly. Dean’s expression was dodgy and guilt-ridden; Sam’s sullen.

“You two stay right there.” _Dammit_ , John thought. He didn’t have time for their shenanigans. He had a hunt to finish ASAP.

“I thought that might have been you,” Monica said brightly into the tension. “Sam was so excited when he got done with Santa—”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was. Listen,” John interrupted, barely acknowledging her, “thanks for bringing them out. But I’ll get them home. We need to have a little…family time.”

He saw Dean gulp. Sam looked up, then dropped his eyes, pale as Dean had been earlier in the week.

“Uh…okay,” Monica said. She felt for Mike’s hand and pulled him toward her. “Sorry about the fire,” she offered weakly over her shoulder as they turned.

“See you at school?” Mike asked Dean quickly and confidentially.

“Sure,” Dean told him, with a shrug that John interpreted to mean, _if I’m still alive_.

John waited until Mike and his mother had left. He said nothing other than, “Fall in,” and led them back to the service corridor closest to where he’d parked. He pulled on his hat and muffler, then automatically ordered Dean to help Sam zip up his coat. He checked them both with a cursory glance, opened the door, and led them into the snow.

It was already getting dark. He opened up the back, let them climb in, and turned the motor over. He got back out to clean off the glass. His hair was still wet enough to freeze in places, and frozen ice pellets formed from the drops of water on his head to drip onto his coat. His nose turned red and runny by the time he’d scraped the windows enough to see. He scraped a little harder than strictly necessary.

He sank back into the driver’s seat wearily, flipped the wipers on, and drove home in utter silence.

As he pulled up to the apartment door, he asked, “Got your key?” At Dean’s nod, he continued, “You two go upstairs and _wait for me_ there.”

“Yessir,” they chorused, shuffling out of the car. Dean turned back. “Dad?”

“I’ll be home soon,” John told him. “If you’re hungry, fix yourself something.”

Dean sucked his lips in and bit them nervously. He was trying to apologize, John knew, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. Not when he could finish up this hunt if he just had a few hours’ peace to do it.

“Cold’s gettin’ in, son,” he said to prompt Dean to shut the door.

Dean pulled himself together—no tears, no excuses—he just nodded curtly and slammed the door so John could drive away.


	15. Chapter 15

John turned the corner, out of sight of the apartment door, and slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “God dammit, Dean!” he shouted at the empty backseat. Once he’d said it aloud, he laughed at himself. At them. Impudent little bastards—and what did he expect? He’d taught Dean—by example if nothing else—to forge a slipshod relationship with honesty. He couldn’t wait to hear the whole progression: what had started the lie and how it had evidently spun out of control. And he’d devise an appropriate punishment for them both. Only first things first.

There was a library ten blocks from the apartment building and it was open until 10 PM on Saturdays. John went around the block to double back onto Elm.

He parked and went in, heading for the Folklore section. Three tedious hours of research later, he was starving, but he’d found three distinct possibilities: a bysen, a huldra, or an askefrue. The good news was that salting and burning the tree ought to take care of any of them. The bad news was that trying to burn the tree in the mall would just result in angering the spirit again, and another shower courtesy of the sprinkler system. He needed to figure out how to remove the tree. Or he needed a second opinion.

But more than either, he needed dinner.

Food made everything easier to handle. It improved his mood, helped him put his thoughts in order. The diner had been crowded when he’d arrived, but business was thinning out by the time he finished his meal. The place also had an old-style phone booth, with a folding door that could keep a conversation private. He dug out his wallet, dropped a few bills on the table, and pulled his calling card out from its slot before tucking the leather sheath back in his pocket. He slid off the bench seat and closed himself into the phone booth.

Was it a good thing to realize he had the number half-memorized, or a bad thing?

“Harvelle’s Roadhouse.”

“Hey, Ellen.”

“John Winchester, as I live and breathe,” Ellen said, affecting a “Scarlet O’Hara” lilt in her usual drawl. “So, you pull your head out of your ass yet and decided to come for Christmas?”

John’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Got a follow-up question, from our conversation.”

“Uh-huh. Well, dinner’s at three and I have a 12-pound turkey. Ought to be enough for you and two growing boys.”

“Not that conversation.”

“Hmph.” There was a world of indictment in that sound. It was a sound that meant Ellen thought John’s priorities were all bass-ackwards. John ignored the insinuation. Any other hunter would be heading the right way to a smacked jaw for interfering…but this was Ellen. She’d been right about the boys lying to him but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being better able to read two boys she’d never met than their own father. Getting riled would just tip her off.

“So,” she continued when he didn’t rise to the bait. “You pull your head out of your ass and figure out what’s going on?”

John snarled wordlessly. “Last piece of the puzzle finally fell into place. Only it was the first piece.” He explained in a highly edited version. Once he’d laid it down, he asked, “So, you ever hear of this…huldra? Or an askefrue?”

“Some sort of dryad, you say?”

“Yeah, that’s my bet. This huldra, in particular, it’s Swedish. Another name for it is a _Tallemaja_ , which translates to ‘pine tree Mary.’ The askefrue or _eschenfrau_ is the German equivalent, supposed to be similar to the Greek Dryads.”

“You didn’t look at the tree before?”

“Swear to God, Ellen, I was sure it was as fake as everything else in there. Hell, they had so much crap on the thing you could barely tell it _was_ a tree.” John stopped before he sounded too defensive. “But this askefrue thing, has all the right symptoms. Problem is, I can’t burn the tree while it’s in the mall.”

“I should say not,” Ellen commented. “What gets me is why you’d burn it at all.”

“Killing people, Ellen,” John said, amazed the justification was necessary.

“She’s protecting what little life she has left,” she replied impatiently. “This ain’t a case of a spirit causing wanton destruction—her existence was peaceful until people came along and kidnapped her. She’s already dying, John.”

John snorted. “We could say practically the same thing about half the things out there.”

“No, it’s different. I mean it. Imagine if forces beyond your control came, hacked you off at the roots, transported you away from your home, your lifesource, and then left you to languish in a land where you can’t eat or breathe. Then imagine people keep showing up with the one thing that can hurry your death along.”

“Fire.” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, yeah.” He could hear the aspersion that she didn’t add.

“Ellen….” He trailed off. The story, told that way, sounded more familiar than he cared to admit.

“What, John?”

Growling, John tapped the side of his fist on the glass door. “Trust you to make it personal.”

“It _is_ personal. To her.” Trust Ellen to take the feminist point of view, too, rather than listen to reason. Her version made the damn thing sound more like an aggrieved housewife than a murderous, wild elemental.

“Well, cry me a river, Ellen. Don’t change the fact that she’s got to go.” John fell onto the bench seat, adjusting the receiver against his ear.

“She’s got to leave the mall, yeah.”

John raked his free hand through his hair. “Can’t just pick up a 20-foot tree and replant it.” For some reason the conversation reminded him of arguing with Sammy in one of Sammy’s full-on Truth, Justice, and the American Way modes. Luckily, Ellen was a little more rational than Sam.

“No, I’ll give you that,” she told him. “Hang on.” He heard the handset rest on the table. Heard Ellen call someone “honey” and set up some drinks. She moved away. A few seconds passed, during which John skimmed over the graffiti in the booth. Nothing really all that interesting caught his eye. Then someone picked up Ellen’s handset.

“Hewo?” a high-pitched voice said. “Hawvewwe’s Woadhowse.”

“Is that Jo?” John asked gently. Elmer Fudd’s speech pattern and the juvenile voice pretty much guaranteed it had to be Ellen and Bill’s daughter. “Sweetie, it’s John.”

“Unca John?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “What’re you doing in the bar, sweetheart?”

“Papa’s ’way. Towed Momma din’t want no baby sittuh.”

“So she put you to work?” John teased.

“Nah. M’colowing.”

“What’re you coloring?”

“Twees. Teachuh says s’bad to kiw twees. ’Cause we gotta wecycwe.”

John scrubbed his face. _Kiw me now_ , he thought. He half-listened, flipping through his notes while Jo treated him to a few more choice phrases about trees and paper and what he finally translated as “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.” Then she held out the phone; her voice called, “Hey, Momma!”

“Jo, honey, what’re you doing, baby?” Ellen’s voice.

“Talkin’a Unca John.” Jo brought the receiver back to her mouth. “Unca John? You comin’ fuh Cwistmas?”

“No, darlin’,” he sighed. “But I’ll see you sometime soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Put your mom back on, honey.”

“Okay.” There was a bit of static and the bar noise as she held out the phone again. 

“John?”

John snapped his journal shut. “You did that on purpose.”

“Never occurred to me. So help me,” Ellen said, dry as dust.

“Right. Don’t kill trees? Tell me that was a coincidence.”

“Hey, kindergarten’s all about conservation these days,” she told him brightly. “And when do you think I had time between putting down the phone, watering your average high-strung crazy hunters, and solving your case for you to coach Jo in the art of old-fashioned guilt trip?” The words were testy, but the voice was affectionate.

“Hmph. Solving my case, huh?”

“Darn right. Got a pen?”

John dug for one and opened up his journal again. “Shoot,” he said when he was ready.

“Okay,” she said, and the flirtatious air vanished, replaced by a voice that was all business. “One of the crazy hunters in here tonight happens to be an expert on antiquity—Greek and Roman myth. He says that as long as some part of the tree can survive, so can the dryad. Should work for your huldra.”

“Hm. Part of the tree—does he mean like a graft?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Sort of a _USS Constitution_ deal: As long as there’s a single plank of the original wood, they can call it the original ship.”

She chuckled. “Sammy tell you that, or is that one part of your own trivia collection?”

“No, my old man’s actually. Came in handy when Dean had to do a report on it, though.” He rested the back of his head on the wall. “Anyway. So, a graft. Anything special?”

“Well, you’ll have to make sure the spirit’s inhabiting the graft, or she’ll stay with her tree.”

“Great. How do I manage that?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs.

“If she’s corporeal, John, I’d suggest you talk to her.” Once again, John could tell she was suppressing the urge to add some kind of insult.

John grimaced. This job was never dull, at least. Weird? Every damn day. But dull? Never.

“Okay, but anything particular? Rituals?”

“Not for a dryad. Course, my guy ain’t familiar with Germanic legends.”

“Huh. Well, any solution’s better than none. Got it. Thanks, Ellen. And hey,” he added impulsively. 

“Yes?” she asked when he held off continuing.

John cleared his throat. “Jo said Bill’s away. Working a job?”

Ellen’s voice tightened. “Caleb wanted a wingman for a weapons run. He promised he’d have Bill home by Christmas.”

“Ah. Well, when he gets back, tell him I’ll swing through sometime next month.”

“I’ll do that.”

John paused. Ellen clearly meant to shut down the topic, but John felt compelled to reassure her, for some reason. “He’ll be back, Ellen.”

“He better be.”

“Tell him…tell him if he doesn’t take care of you and that little girl, I’ll personally show him how it’s done.”

“Get in line, John.” She was still laughing when John hung up.

When he stood up, the waitress attracted his attention and hoisted the coffee pot in an unspoken question. John shook his head, waving her away. She shrugged and went back to her rounds. He punched in his card number again and followed it with Gina’s.

“Hello?” she answered, sounding tired.

“Gina, it’s John.”

“John.” Her voice grew alert. “Sheriff Dade was looking for you—”

“Yeah. He can read my report when this is over,” John said dismissively. “Listen, I am going to need to get in, after all. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

John nodded, expecting her surprise. “After everyone’s out of the mall. It’s very important. Could you call the guards?”

“I’ll meet you,” she offered.

“No—”John shook his head—“It could be dangerous.”

“They won’t—shouldn’t—let you in with authorization just by phone.”

“Let me worry about that,” he insisted.

“No. I want to see this through.” Gina took a quick breath, but her next statement was tentative. “Whatever that was this afternoon, it wasn’t human. Was it?”

“…No,” John said sadly. He scraped his bottom lip with his front teeth. This was his second-least favorite part of the job. It never got easier.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stop it, Gina. That’s all you need to know.”

“Sheriff Dade said he checked with the Michigan State Police. They’ve got no record of you applying for an investigator’s license.” Her voice was quiet, more a recitation of facts than a list of accusations. “You’re not a PI. And you’re not FBI, either, are you?”

John tapped the receiver against his forehead before bringing it back to respond: “Does it matter?”

She sighed. “No. I guess it doesn’t.” He heard her shift around, possibly standing up. “The mall closed early tonight because of the fire. There’s a cleanup crew there. I’ve already asked Wade and Jerry to call me when they’re done.”

“All right,” John conceded. Gina wasn’t going to be shaken off, and besides, he owed her. She could have turned him in to Sheriff Dade if she’d wanted. “You’ve got my number?”

“Yes.”

“Call me when they call you and I’ll meet you there,” he said by way of a battle-plan.

“Okay. And John?” he heard her call, though he was halfway to the cradle.

“Yes?” he asked, pulling the phone back to his ear.

“Thank you. For doing this.”

John blinked. He was sure everyone in the diner could see him blushing, but he glanced out and saw only the waitress bringing plates out to a table. “You’re…you’re welcome.”

He hung up. That part never got easier, either. 

He stood up again to check the diner. Business was picking up again, but no one seemed to care about the phone booth. He made one more phone call before leaving. 

“Singer Salvage.”

“Bobby. John Winchester.” 

“John. What’ve you done?”

John barked a short laugh. “Nothing much. Finishing up a job—should be done tonight.”

“And it’s under control.”

“You sound skeptical. Yeah. Should be fine. Thought I’d get a second opinion on Ellen’s proposed resolution.”

“So not a salt-and-burn?” Bobby growled.

“No, apparently not.” He checked to make sure no one was nearby, then outlined the creature and the graft idea.

“Ought to work,” Bobby mused when John was through. “Think I’d use a little mistletoe to get her to come out, if it was me.”

“Mistletoe, right. Easy enough. Can’t really say I look forward to kissing her,” John teased.

“It’s for summoning, you idjit,” Singer groused.

John chuckled. “I know, I know.”

“So why did you really call?”

“Couple reasons,” John admitted, sobering. He sat back on the bench and crossed one ankle over the other knee. “First off, this job’s about done. Wondered if you’d heard about anything else in the vicinity.”

“Starting a new hunt this close to Christmas?” Bobby asked. John could see the hunter’s confused squint three states away. “Didn’t you say you wanted to spend a quiet Christmas with the boys?”

“Yeah,” John said, half-grumble, half-sigh. “Well, Frank and Jesse may not get a Christmas, this rate.”

“Oh, Christ,” Bobby said in exasperation that John already felt. “What’ve they done now?”

“Fuck if I know the whole of it, but what I got so far is boneheaded, even for our own Mr. Wizard.” John shook his head, bewildered.

Bobby grunted. “John, you can’t watch them every second.” He was trying to be helpful, but it was anything but a consolation.

“No, but…it’s just been a rough week,” John sighed. He leaned forward again. “Dean’s had the flu, and just when I thought we were getting back on track, I find out he helped Sam lie to his teachers to get out of some damn concert at school.”

“How’d he manage that?”

“Told her we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.” John exhaled a sharp huff, halfway between a laugh and a short sigh. “Didn’t even know the boy knew enough to fake it. So all Sam’s teachers think I’m some crazy-ass Fundamentalist whack job won’t let his kids celebrate Christmas.” He stood up because his butt was falling asleep on the bench. “As if that’s not enough, Sam’s doing his best to raise their interest level by drawing pictures of him and his brother pissing their names in the snow.”

He actually read all the graffiti in the phone booth while Bobby finished laughing. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Bobby said after he could breathe again.

“God’s honest, Bobby,” John swore, leaning on the side of the booth. “Picture’s on my fridge. I mean, I should tell him all the ways that’s FUBAR, but I just laugh every time I look at the damn thing.” He kicked the leg of the bench seat gently with the tip of his shoe, reminding himself of Sammy when he was embarrassed.

“Boys’ll be boys, John.”

“Do they have to be so thoroughly boys all the time?” he groaned.

“Does my number spell _Dear Abby_?” Bobby crabbed at him. “You think I’m friggin’ Sally Jesse, John? They’re _your_ sons.”

John grunted, but pressed anyway. “You and Jim probably know’em best—hell, you’ve probably spent as much time with’em by now’s I have.”

“Sad commentary, John,” Bobby said, blessedly free of recrimination.

“I know. Trust me. Thing is,” he continued, pacing the single step the booth would allow, then sitting again, “lying to teachers, trying to duck things—first off, that’s Dean’s style, not Sam’s. I expect that kind of thing from him. But Sammy?” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can handle two juvenile delinquents. But what really gets to me is…they lied to _me_.”

“Covering it up?” Bobby asked sharply.

“Right.”

“So let me guess: You’re sitting in a bar somewhere, plucking up the courage to punish them the way you should, procrastinating as usual, because when it comes to your kids, you’re a big wussy.”

John couldn’t find a reply for a second. “I’m in a diner, not a bar, and I discipline my boys plenty, Singer. Just ’cause our old men preferred a strap to extra drills or chores don’t mean I’m soft,” he continued over Bobby’s knowing chuckle.

“Okay,” Bobby placated him. “So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is…it’s Christmas.”

“Ain’t Christmas yet, man. My calendar says December 15th.” Bobby sounded like he was practically daring John to man up.

John chewed on that, stretching his foot against the door, but careful not to push hard enough to open it. “Well, there’s a bigger issue. Have a feeling I’ll need to blow town pretty quickly after this job is wrapped up. The boys have one more week before the break. I can pull them out next weekend and get’em settled again before Christmas Eve if there’s somewhere close to go.”

Bobby said nothing for a moment. Then: “Dammit, John.” The disapproval Bobby’d been holding back came out in the two words all at once.

“Oh, fuck you, Singer,” John shot back testily. “You know well as I do that sometimes it’s better not to be around once the questions start getting asked.”

“Thought you said it was under control.”

“It is. Well, it will be,” he corrected grudgingly. “Went down in a rather public place.”

“Oh, Hell,” Bobby said incredulously after a brief pause, “you’re not at the center of that mall riot in Saginaw?”

John’s face screwed up in his own disbelief. How could Bobby know about the job already? “Jesus, Bobby. Ellen call you or something?”

Bobby made a “pshaw” sound that John bet left spit on his mouthpiece. “Satellite’s the best way to get a TV signal out here, John. That story made the cable feed.”

“Terrific.” He slapped his thigh, rubbed out the sting through his jeans.

“You’re lucky. They only have footage from after,” Bobby told him. “One time a guy I knew wound up on national news cleaning out a coven of demon-worshippers. Last I heard he took up hunting in Canada.”

John couldn’t help himself. He grinned wolfishly. “Canada has socialized health care. And reasonable gun laws.”

“You Marines take lessons in missing the point?” Bobby growled.

“You Navy men all that practiced in the art of driving it home?”

“Right between your sweet-ass cheeks, you bet.”

John fell silent. He didn’t feel like a sniping match with Singer tonight, not when he still had work to do.

“Go home, John,” Bobby told him gently. “If I know Dean, he’s already tearing himself up way worse’n you could ever wish. Stop being a jackass makin’ him twist in the noose.”

“Yeah.” John sighed deeply. “Mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe,” Bobby confirmed. “An’if the graft thing don’t work, you can always claim the tree has Dutch Elm or something and get it out of there.”

“If I get her in the graft, I could just salt and burn that.”

“Maybe,” Bobby said, though it sounded like he didn’t think much of the idea. “If you had to. Not in the mall, though—she might make it back to the tree.”

A guy outside tapped on the glass. John sat up, startled. Muted through the door, John could hear the customer say, “Hey, buddy. Gonna be in there all night?”

“Super,” John told Bobby, waving an open palm at the guy to give him a few more minutes. “Guess I’ll just have to worry about that if it happens.” He shifted around in preparation to sign off the call.

“Guess so. John?”

“Yeah.” John held up his finger at the guy on the other side, turned his back a little for extra privacy.

“Dean’s eleven.” Bobby was reminding him. “God,” he chortled, “the number of times I screwed the pooch at his age….”

“Bobby,” John cut him off angrily. “Not talking about breaking a window with a baseball or even shoplifting a comic book. I don’t even know _why_ they did it.”

“Well, dumbass, go home and find out,” Bobby said. Like Ellen’s, his words were more harsh than his tone. “Longer you stay away, the more all three of you will stew in your juices.”

“Yeah. Dammit.” He let his head fall back on the door frame.

Bobby laughed. “That’s the spirit, boy. I’ll see if there’s anything in the pipeline and let you know.”

“Thanks.”

John wondered if the diner had a phone book. The booth sure didn’t—he checked before he surrendered it to the dude who was waiting. He needed a florist with mistletoe in stock. And if that were the most bizarre shopping trip he’d ever do in this life, he’d count himself lucky.


	16. Chapter 16

Dean opened up a couple cans of ravioli, the easiest thing he could think of, and heated the contents on the stove. He wanted to just collapse. But anxiety over how pissed Dad had been promised to keep him up, and upset, ’til Dad came back to lower the boom. His punishments were never as bad as waiting for them to be imposed. Sometimes, he thought maybe Dad planned it that way deliberately, so that by the time he did come back and pass his sentence, it was more of a relief than a penalty. Other times, Dean suspected it was just that Dad couldn’t stand to be around him when he’d screwed up so bad.

“Dean, how much trouble are we in?” Sam asked.

“Hard to say,” Dean observed cautiously. “Dad’s pretty annoyed.” He came out with their bowls and flopped on the couch. Sam took his supper. He kept flipping the TV channels in search of something to watch.

Dean picked at his ravioli. He was feeling a little queasy again. Last thing he wanted was to throw up after only just getting back on his feet. “Here,” he said. He held out his half-eaten portion to Sam, who had already finished most of his.

“You okay?”

“Don’t feel like ravioli,” he said to stop Sam from fussing.

Sam ate. “Want something else?” he offered when there was nothing left but sauce and little bits of broken ravioli shell. “I’ll make you a sammich or cereal.”

“Nah. I’m okay. Thanks.” He appreciated Sam’s solicitousness, but the idea of Sam taking care of him always made him uncomfortable.

Sam seemed to know that it wasn’t just his stomach that was bothering him. “S’not your fault, Dean.”

‘Yeah, it is,” Dean said glumly. “You didn’t ask me to lie to your teacher. I did that.”

“But I wanted you to,” Sam assured him. “I mean, it wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t wanna be in that dumb pageant. I didn’t stop you,” he concluded guiltily.

“Yeah. But lying to Dad?”

“Not cool,” they said in unison.

“We both did it, though,” Sam reasoned. “Wasn’t you.”

“Doesn’t matter, Sammy. I’m s’posed to know better. We both are.”

“S’not like we _hurt_ anyone,” Sam said. He stuck out his lower lip. “I guess that means Dad won’t put in a good report with Santa,” he said after thinking for a bit.

Dean sighed. “Nope. Figure you can kiss your Transformer doll goodbye.” He chucked Sam lightly on the shoulder.

“Action figure. Dolls are…gay,” he finished, as if trying to score points with his brother.

“Whatever,” Dean said, though he was at least gratified to know that Sam was figuring out some basic rules of the universe. Perhaps there was hope for him. “Face it, Sam,” he said to prepare him for the worst, “we screwed ourselves out of Christmas this year.”

“You really think so?” Sam asked pitifully. Dean didn’t have the heart to answer. He just shrugged. He had no idea whether Dad would get them anything at all, but he didn’t have high hopes for it. Worse, knowing that there was no way Dad would have bought the Transformer thing, even if Sam had been perfect all year—which he hadn’t been—Dean didn’t want to consider how Sam would react to losing out on his ideal present with nothing to replace it.

He picked up the remote and flicked around. One of the networks was showing some Christmas special, one was starting an old Disney movie, and the third had a football game. PBS had a concert and the last channel the TV could receive was all snowy, but had one of the million remakes of _A Christmas Carol_ showing. He went back to the animated special—one of the stop-motion kind—and they sat silently. Dean put his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes. Long before the snowman lost all his teeth, he fell asleep.

Dad’s key in the lock and the apartment door opening woke him. Light from the hall spilled in, then narrowed to a sliver and disappeared as Dad shut the door. Sam must have pulled the blankets off the bed, because one was keeping Dean warm, and Sam had tucked himself under the other one, curled up half on top of Dean. Sam didn’t budge when Dean stretched and looked around blearily. His father was laying down what looked like a bouquet of flowers on the table near the phone.

“Dad?” he asked tentatively.

“You didn’t lay out fresh salt,” Dad said hoarsely, but the accusation was clear.

“I…I fell asleep,” Dean apologized.

But Dad wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I noticed. Should have poured it out soon as you came in. Then you wouldn’t have forgotten to do it.”

“Yes, sir. Want me to do it now?” He pushed aside the covers to get up.

“I got it.” Dean watched his father bend over the threshold of the front door and sprinkle a liberal line across the floor. Then Dad came over, turned off the TV, and sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. Without the light from the TV, the room was gloomy. The streetlamp outside cast a glow through the window that slanted across half of Dad’s face. “Well?” Dad said, barely making any sound because they were so close. “Something you wanna say to me, son?”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Dean said earnestly.

“I know that,” Dad said, nodding. “I’d be interested in an explanation, if you’ve got one.”

Dean thought about all the things he could say to excuse himself, how he didn’t mean for his story to go so far, or for things to get so complicated so quickly. “I….” He swallowed. Dad wasn’t going to care about that. The only thing that might make any difference to him was why Dean had lied. And since it was for Sam, there was even a chance Dad would understand. “You should’ve seen that lame rehearsal, Dad. Sammy was miserable. I just thought…what does it matter?”

But Dad was implacable. “Matters because stuff like that makes you stand out, Dean. His teachers think we’re fanatics. It calls attention, makes us conspicuous. Makes them wonder what else might be going on at home.”

“I didn’t…I just wanted to help him out,” Dean said, feeling utterly wretched.

“And he let you because you’re his big brother and he worships you.”

“No, he—”

“Dean. Come on, dude,” Dad said sternly, shaking his head. “He copies you all the time.” Dean wasn’t so sure that was true, but Dad kept talking softly. “I know you hate school, buddy. But you’ve got to realize that what you do influences Sam.”

Dean looked at his lap. 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t try the same line to escape your Secret Santa deal,” Dad muttered.

Dean attempted Sam’s puppy dog look. Even in the dim light, Dad wasn’t fooled. He leaned back, hands gripping his knees.

“Aw, crap. You did, didn’t you?”

“Tried,” Dean admitted. One shoulder arched. “Didn’t work.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dad rolled his eyes. But he was fighting a smile, too, which made Dean bold. He grinned conspiratorially.

“Telling you, Dad: Mrs. Fontana? She’s the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m sure of it.”

Dad suppressed a growl with a sobering, sidelong look at him. “Doesn’t excuse lying for no good reason. Not to mention making me waste time dealing with your fallout when I have important things to do.”

“M’sorry, Dad,” Dean repeated helplessly.

Dad said nothing. He looked away, closed his eyes. He scrubbed his forehead like the whole thing gave him a headache. In the half-light from the street, Dean could tell Dad was struggling to deliver Dean’s sentence. Condemned, he waited for the only verdict that meant anything to him, from the only judge and jury in the world that mattered.

“Moved pretty quick today, getting Sammy away from that mess.”

It wasn’t that Dad never praised him, because he did. But this particular comment came from left field. Especially after what Dad had just said about distracting him from his hunting. Dean wasn’t sure what had prompted it. Dad sounded almost apologetic, like he was trying to dull the edge on his last comment.

”You said to get him out of there,” Dean said, puzzled. Maybe Dad was testing him.

“Mm-hmm,” Dad agreed. “But you didn’t hesitate.”

Dean shrugged both shoulders. Did Dad really think he’d ignore an order, after nearly getting Sammy killed that one time?

Dad rested his chin on his hands. He seemed to be weighing Dean’s failures against his successes. As if it would help him decide which way the scales tipped.

“This kind of thing gonna happen again? Lying to me because you lied to a teacher?”

“No, sir.” He might lie again, but at least he’d tell Dad next time it happened.

“I’m serious, dude,” Dad lectured. “There are reasons to lie and because-you-feel-like-it ain’t one of them.”

“I get it, Dad.” He really did. It was hard to talk—his throat felt tight and his eyes burned. He didn’t want to cry in front of Dad, though. Not twice in one week.

Dad persisted, as if he had to continue the thought whether Dean got it or not. “I can’t protect you and Sam if I have the wrong idea of what’s going on.”

Dean nodded. He knew if he tried to answer, his voice would break, and the tears would spill. But if Dad didn’t insist on a verbal reply, he could hold it together. He knew he could.

Dad grimaced before continuing. It looked like he’d run out of steam, or maybe he just saw that Dean felt like crap about the whole thing. When he spoke next, it was like they were buddies again. Almost. “We been kinda slackin’ off since Turkey Day, huh, son?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh…training? Yes, sir. A little.”

“All this snow,” Dad murmured, looking out the window. By the time he turned his head back to Dean, Dean had swallowed a few times and could meet his father’s gaze again without the fear that he’d fall apart. “Well, you’ve got one more week left in school before the holidays. Then we’ll see.”

“We’re leaving again?” Damn. His voice did crack.

“Soon, yeah. So looks like you’ll get a do-over.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked down at Sam, still sacked out with his head and arms akimbo. “Sammy kinda worried you’d, uh, cancel Christmas,” he ventured, hiding behind his brother to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Haven’t ruled it out yet, dude,” Dad said dangerously. He narrowed his eyes. “You feeling okay? I’m talking flu, here. All the excitement didn’t spike your fever or anything?” Dad leaned forward to swipe his hand over Dean’s forehead.

Dean ducked it. He didn’t trust himself not to lean in to his father’s touch, and he didn’t want to appear needy. “No, ’m fine, Dad. Just tired out.”

“Yeah,” Dad said, and cleared his throat. His hand hovered in the air for a second before he dropped it into his lap and laced his fingers. He smirked. “Running from vicious sprinklers’ll take it right out of a guy.”

Dean chuckled. He didn’t know why Dad felt like joking, but he’d take that over a dressing down any day. “Roger that.”

Dad drew in a breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. He stiffened his back. It seemed to Dean like Dad was remembering to be severe with him. “Okay. You go on and get ready for bed. Let me talk to Sam.”

Dean rose reluctantly, easing Sam’s head down onto the couch as he withdrew his hip-shaped pillow. He still wasn’t sure if he was really in trouble or not, or how much. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been forgiven, completely, mostly because Dad offered no hand on his shoulder or tap on the knee to send him off, not even a swat on the butt like he sometimes did with Sammy. So perhaps Dad had decided to let him twist a little while longer before leveling his real judgment. But then again, Dad seemed more tired than pissed. And he’d definitely been back in an okay mood when he teased about the sprinklers. So maybe Dean had dodged the firing squad. Maybe Dad was just in the Christmas spirit. His thoughts turned back to the movie he’d surfed past, about Scrooge. He’d dreamed of ghosts and as a result had had a change of heart. Dean knew ghosts didn’t do good things like that, which was probably why he hated that story. But maybe finishing his job meant Dad was in a mood to be lenient.

And he must have finished the job, or they wouldn’t be leaving.

He brushed his teeth and used the toilet. When he crossed the hall, he could hear Dad and Sammy talking in the same subdued way. He couldn’t hear the words, just their voices. Dad had his arms crossed and sounded annoyed. Sam’s half of the conversation was pretty whiny. Bad news for Sam, Dean decided; he really should learn to respond to Dad with more deference, less defensiveness. He didn’t linger, though, because Dad could see him in the hallway and he’d ordered Dean to bed, besides. Dad had chosen to play their interrogations in isolation. Since they’d teamed up to deceive him, Dean figured that was fair. He could catch up with Sam once the ordeal was over.

Dean double-checked the salt lines on the windowsill before he lay down on the mattress to wait for his fellow condemned criminal.

~*~

John touched Sam’s shoulder to wake him up.

“Need somethin’, Dean?” he said sleepily before realizing Dean was gone, and he was lying directly on the couch cushion. “Oh,” he continued, seeing his father where he sat on the table. “Dad. Um. Hi.” He struggled against the couch cushions to push himself straight.

“Hey, Sammy,” John didn’t trust his voice at full volume, so he continued to use the same half-whisper he’d used with Dean.

“’M really sorry,” Sam volunteered, in a preemptive effort, apparently.

“Are you?” John quipped. He’d intended to be kinder, but Sam’s wheedling pissed him right back off. “Do you understand why what you and Dean did is unacceptable?”

Sam took that in the way he always processed the unexpected, jaw going a little slack, eyes widening and nostrils flared. He pulled his jaw to one side in self-recrimination. “’Cause if they think we’re not normal, they’ll look for other things to be wrong with us?”

It was a stock answer and that meant Sam wasn’t thinking it through. “That’s one reason, yeah,” John said impatiently. “You didn’t just lie to the school, though. You lied to me. To my face, Sammy.” He tried to sound stern instead of hurt.

A bit of Dean’s impishness crept into Sam’s face. “Technically, the first time, I had my back to you,” he observed wryly. John’s disapproving glare quelled him in an instant. 

“I’m not kidding around, Sam,” he said, making no attempt to hide his irritation. “Don’t you lie to me.” He forced himself to moderate his tone, pull back so Sam wouldn’t spook or worse, flare. “I don’t care what it is—if I don’t like what you have to say, that’s a different story. We’ll deal with that separately. But don’t you dare lie to me. Ever.” He took a steadying breath to keep his voice from rising. “This is bigger than forgetting to tell me something—it’s more serious than that. You got me?”

Sam dropped his gaze. “Yessir.”

“On top of lying, you made me spend a lot of time trying to fix the wrong wagon. Those conversations with Miss Johnson? And all that business with Mrs. Farnsworth?” John stabbed his finger toward Sam’s nose. “It was disrespectful to all of us, Sam. Do you understand that?”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Sam’s voice cracked, but he didn’t start crying, quite. 

John waited to make sure Sam meant it. When Sam sniffed and let out a ragged sigh, John could tell that his message had sunk in. He lightened up his intensity a hair. “All right, then. Way I see it, there’s two issues here. First is, you got yourself a pass on a school activity you should have been part of. Second is squaring yourself up with me. Now as for the first, we’ll have to talk to Miss Johnson—you owe her an apology and it’s up to her to decide what’s the best course.”

“Yessir,” Sam mumbled.

“Can’t hear you,” John pressed.

Sam’s head came up. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he said more distinctly.

“Far as you and me are concerned, well….” He paused. Half a lifetime ago, when he and Mary had been expecting Dean, she’d made him promise he’d never strap their children, the way he’d been raised. Grounding made no sense, since a seven-year-old in Michigan didn’t have much of anywhere to go. He’d already decided they’d both step up their training; that wasn’t strictly speaking punishment, though, just good sense. And despite his threat to Dean (and Bobby’s recommendation), he couldn’t bring himself to completely cancel Christmas, as Dean had put it. That left increased chores, decreased privileges, or a combination. With Sam, some sort of penalty was usually necessary, unlike Dean, who took everything to heart. Bobby was right about that much. John sighed, decision made. “I’m sure Dean wouldn’t object if we shuffled chores a bit. Dish and laundry detail for one month.”

Sam’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened, but he didn’t complain. John soon understood why he didn’t object; he was more anxious about other things. “What…what about Christmas, sir?” he asked tentatively.

John sighed, crossing his arms. “Sam, that Transformer thing, it’s just a waste of money.”

“It’s really cool, though,” Sam said, as if that made a damn bit of difference. 

“Yeah, it’s cool this week. Wait six months and you won’t care anymore.” Behind Sam and the couch, Dean came out of the bathroom. He froze for an instant, glanced down the hall toward John, but unstuck himself and crossed into the bedroom discreetly. It occurred to John that he might be able to shift some responsibility off himself, as well as test how what Sam had witnessed this afternoon had affected him. “Besides,” he said, sliding his eyes out the window, “that’s up to Santa, isn’t it?”

Sam bit his lip. He had obviously been thinking along those lines already, because his argument was quick to take form. “Do you _have_ to tell him?” he whined.

“Samuel,” John said sharply. He suspected that Sam would cling to any hope of the best outcome, but from the beginning of their conversation, Sammy had been ducking the impact and the consequences of his little trick. And while some part of him was grateful Sam _could_ still believe in fairy tales, it was rapidly engulfed by the growing piece of him that wanted Sam to grow up already and face facts. He could feel his impatience rising and forced it back down. “You think you deserve that toy after all this?”

Sam hung his head. When he looked back up, the puppy eyes were in full force. “I didn’t _mean_ to do anything wrong,” he insisted, sounding on the point of tears again. Typical: he wouldn’t stoop to defend himself with John, but looking bad in Santa’s eyes shamed him. John willed himself not to get offended by the difference; just to be glad there still was a difference. It didn’t work very well.

“I never said you meant any harm,” John assured him through gritted teeth. “Sometimes that don’t matter.”

“Is Dean getting his Gameboy?” Sam asked hotly.

“We’re not talking about Dean; we’re talking about you,” John bit out.

Sam’s defiance flared for another heartbeat: his breathing heavy, his face storming. Then he deflated. “Yes, sir.”

“So,” John continued, letting himself ride his frustration to keep the impact of his words as strong as possible, “I’ll ask you again: Do you really think you deserve a big fancy toy after your behavior?”

“Guess not,” Sam mumbled dejectedly.

“Then I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now go on to bed. Brush your teeth.”

“It’s Saturday,” Sam protested, but he was already sliding off the couch.

“Bed,” John repeated, waving vaguely into the hallway beyond. He aimed a light swat at Sam’s butt as Sam rounded the corner of the sofa.

While Sam busied himself in the bathroom, John cleaned up the files and the other stuff he didn’t need anymore. He wanted to pour himself a whiskey, but he still had work to do tonight, so he settled for a beer. He read through the papers and circled an item of interest. There was one other thing he wanted to check in the paper, so he pulled out the Saturday ads for a little specialized research. After a few minutes, he set aside one page.

Eventually, Sam crossed the hall and the light in his and Dean’s room clicked off. John turned the TV on at a low volume. He sat in front of it, not really paying any attention, to add a preliminary entry on Askefrues and Huldras to his journal.

A little after midnight, the phone rang. John answered immediately.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat.

“John?” the voice quavered. “It’s Gina.”

“Mall’s all shut up?”

“Yes. I just got the call.” She sounded a little shaky, but she returned his terse question with a business-like tone.

“Good,” he told her, meaning both to acknowledge the news and to reward her self-control. “It’ll take me half an hour to get there, this time of night. Still set on coming along?”

“You’re not going to convince me otherwise.”

John growled through a smile. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

He grabbed the package of mistletoe on his way out, not noticing when a sprig of it fell free.

~*~

No flare of orange light marked the end of this job, not this time. The usual tools of John’s trade—shovel, salt, accelerant, and fire—remained in his large trunk—except for the sharp-bladed spade. Digging into frozen ground was no easy task. But he’d done it before and sure would again.

At least this time, he had someone to hold the flashlight.

Gina had stood back at the perimeter of the mall atrium, per John’s instructions, while he took out the mistletoe and held it loosely by his leg. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to entice the spirit, except that flushing her out with fire was not recommended. Neither Ellen nor Bobby thought there should be any ritual, so John simply spoke.

“Look, I think we can solve both our problems if you come out and talk.” He laid out the mistletoe in front of himself. “You want to live—we don’t want you to die in here. Come on out.”

He did his best to ignore his audience. Gina had told both guards to take a break, which they did readily enough after John added fifty bucks each for incentive and promised that the accidents would end that night. But Gina had refused to leave his side. She was still so upset about Lyle that John hadn’t felt he could refuse. If she found his current conduct a bit bonkers, John didn’t blame her. He’d have had a hard time standing and watching someone else make such a fool of himself, if he didn’t know what he knew.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he muttered in a childlike sing-song more appropriate to the boys he’d left sleeping. No answer. Not even the twitch of a pinecone.

“Listen, we mean no harm. I ain’t got all night.” He stared into the tree. Had one of the full branches rustled a tad? “If you don’t come out, I’ll have no choice but to burn the tree.”

An ethereal laugh resounded in the open mall crossroads. Gina gasped; John gestured to her with the mistletoe to keep cool. He spared her a fleeting glance to make sure she’d be okay, and she nodded at him resolutely. 

“ _Nein_ ,” the laugh’s owner said. Her voice sounded raspy, like wind through the pines. Like something ancient mixed with something always fresh and green and young. “Burn me? I’ve seen what happens now, thanks to you: _Wasser_ will come.”

“Not if we’re not inside,” John countered. “And you’re leaving this place tonight, one way or another.”

There was another ripple of laughter and the apparition stood in the branches. She glowed slightly, but not as bright as some ghosts John had seen. Her skin was sallow and sagging. Her hair had a ragged, dull look. Her dress, which others had reported as flowing or full-skirted, hung in tatters to her knees. “What can you do against me?” she taunted. “I have lived for two hundred years—you are but a speck upon the earth, a blight on green growing things.”

John was unimpressed by the archaic speech or the attempted put-down. “I’m a speck that can get you back to the forest,” he retorted.

“Lies!” she screeched. The echo bounced off the glass. The branches shook, sending one or two ornaments to shatter. She drew up one gnarled, twisted hand. Her face darkened like scarred wood, her eyes went black and dead like a shark’s, and every instant of that 200 years showed in her skin, like bark flaking and peeling off an old trunk. She batted her hand at John as if to swat a fly. Nothing happened.

John held up the mistletoe. It hadn’t worked well as an enticement, but it seemed to protect him from her attack. “You lie!” she said again, less vehemently. “I am dying and there is naught you can do to stop it. But say what you will and leave me.”

“You’re not dead yet,” John said. “Long as part of the tree lives, you still got life. Right?”

“ _Ja._ ”

“So you let me cut a section…a graft. You travel in it with me, and I’ll plant it somewhere you can survive.” He tinged his voice with steel. “You leave this place and leave the people here alone.”

“How do I know you will not break your word and burn the branch?” She stepped forward, eyes back to a deep green.

“You’d just come back to the tree, wouldn’t you?”

Her eyes flinched down to the mistletoe. John thought he understood. “Mistletoe. It’s a parasite…. It’s a binding herb, isn’t it?” he wondered aloud. “Look, all we care about is that you stop harming humans.”

“They harmed me first!” she declared.

“You sound like my seven-year-old,” John told her testily, the conversation with Sam coming back to irk him all over again. He forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down, concentrate on the job. Bargain with it, for crissakes. Ellen owed him one. “Think about it—back outside, back in the green with your own…kind.”

“Not as many of us, anymore,” she said mournfully.

“Gonna be one less, you don’t stop bitching,” John said impatiently. “This is the best offer I’m gonna make. If not, I’ll cut the graft anyway, bind you into it, and burn it.” He almost wished she _would_ attack, just to give him the satisfaction of killing her.

As if granting his request, the Askefrue snarled at him. John brandished his sprig of mistletoe in one hand, a large, serrated blade in the other. Before he could make good his threat, she backed down.

“ _Ja_ ,” she sighed. “Done. _Es ist ein Abkommen_. It is a bargain.” She disappeared. A moment later, one of the lower branches twitched. “ _Herr Jäger!_ ” her voice called faintly. 

John dove under the tree, blade out. The tree base was anchored in a large pot with water and multiple screws to keep it upright. The pot itself had been hidden, skirted with a large quantity of cotton batting and fabric, padding his knees. The cord from the lights threaded through the wispy cotton batting. A few of the plastic shavings that looked like fake snow were strewn over the skirt as well. As he inched forward, static made the flakes stick to his jeans. He kept the mistletoe in his off-hand against an attack, now that he was so close in her reach. 

“Cut down here,” he heard the voice say.

“Where?”

“ _Dumkoff, heren!_ ” she yelled. John felt a tiny sting on the back of his hand. He looked down and saw a tiny version of the spirit. She pointed to a low limb. “Cut on a slant, as much trunk and root as you can manage,” she chided.

_Should have brought a saw_ , John realized. Within ten strokes, the blade was coated in sticky, tan sap the same color as the tears that had streaked the Askefrue’s face that afternoon.

John hacked away at the branch until it came free. The spirit, still in its pixie-like incarnation, rode on a pinecone.

“ _Schnell!_ ” she exclaimed. 

“Hang on,” John said. He cut a strip of the cloth batting and dipped it into the pot next to the trunk. After soaking it, he wrapped the batting around the cut spike of pine branch.

“You must hurry,” she insisted. “This branch will die unless joined to another tree soon.”

“Fine,” John told her. He crawled out from the tree. Standing up, cracking his back, he lifted the branch out to salute Gina with it. “Phase One.” He walked up to her. 

She stared, wide-eyed, at the branch, but after a little gulp to steel herself, she whispered, “Now what?”

“Now we get out of here, and I have to take this to plant it with another tree.” John took her arm to steer her down the corridor. “You don’t happen to know the way to the nearest pine grove?”

“ _Nein_ ,” the miniature Askefrue said. “I will tell you where to take me.”

“Super,” John grumbled. He and Gina walked toward the exit. “You don’t need to—”

“I’m seeing this through, John,” Gina insisted. “Though I do wish it weren’t quite so cold out tonight.”

They took his car, leaving hers at the mall. John overruled the spirit’s protests of timeliness and made a stop at a 24-hour McDonald’s to fill a thermos with coffee, which he and Gina sipped as they drove north. After about an hour, the Askefrue directed him onto the side of a mountain and into an old growth forest. They had to stop the car by the side of the road and walk in the rest of the way. At last, the spirit had pointed to a tree. “Expose the roots of that one, and I will bind myself to it.” John had started digging.

The beam of light trembled; Gina was shivering.

“Almost done,” John told her. He thanked heaven for small favors: at least he didn’t have to open an entire grave in this frozen earth.

“G-g-good,” Gina told him. She sniffed. 

He twisted the spade in the ground and met the resistance of the root. Taking out his blade, he cut away part of the root so that the branch and the root could meld. The spirit had been quiet for about half an hour, while John had shoveled through snow and then hacked his way into the frozen ground. John wasn’t sure if she’d died. He didn’t much care, either. Dead or alive, she wasn’t going back to kill more innocent humans. Mostly innocent, anyway.

He unwrapped the branch and placed it in the earth, its exposed innards facing toward the open root. Before his eyes, the two pieces fused. Then he shoved the earth he’d just turned back into the hole. It took a while to get enough back in to cover the root back up.

“ _Danke_ ,” the spirit said softly.

“ _Bitte_ ,” John answered reflexively. Tuesday, only four days ago, he’d translated _O Tannenbaum_ for Sammy. It felt like years had passed since then. 

The sky was lightening by the time he and Gina made it back to the Impala. No one had disturbed the car on the road, but frost had formed over the windows from the cooling condensation. John started the engine and let Gina warm up inside while he scraped as much as he needed to see.

Dawn had come and gone when they returned to the mall lot. “I have something for you,” Gina told him as he pulled up alongside her car. “Wait here.”

He waited for her to dig in her glove box. She came back to his window, which he rolled down for her. “I didn’t want to chance leaving it in the office, in case we didn’t have time to go in. It’s your check. The eight hours you were scheduled for…plus a little bonus.”

“But—”

“You got rid of that thing,” Gina overrode his protest. “I still don’t know exactly what it was, but I know it would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for you.” She swiped at her eyes, though John couldn’t tell whether she was crying again, or if the cold was making them tear up. “I’ll get your Santa suit back to the Macy’s—they rent from the same supplier we do. If you’re staying in town for a few more days, I’ll see if I can get them to pay you what they owe you, too.”

“Gina,” John looked at the check, and the number on it, in disbelief. “This is….”

“Enough for your family to have a decent Christmas. I figured you wouldn’t want to risk coming back here, not after everything.” She patted his arm in a motherly way.

“It’s not…I don’t….” he smiled sadly. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“John,” she said, sniffing, and this time it wasn’t just the cold in the air, “no one’s going to believe what they saw, and soon enough, they’ll forget what you’ve done. But I’ll remember.” Her eyes brimmed. “Merry Christmas.”

John began to protest, but couldn’t argue with her sincerity. “Merry Christmas.” He found it hard to meet her eye.

Gina kissed his cheek. When she stood up, his face felt faintly wet and cold from the spots left by her tears. “And good luck. God bless you.”


	17. Chapter 17

Dean waited up for Sam so they could compare notes, but after Dad left, Sam asked so many questions that Dean had been tempted to duct tape his mouth shut.

“I don’t know where he went,” Dean told him for the third time. “Maybe he decided he needed to drink himself into a coma to get away from your whining.”

Sam ignored him. “He _really_ didn’t say anything about Christmas to you?”

Dean sighed. As if he hadn’t already answered this one five times since Sam came to bed. “Not really. But I don’t expect much.”

“He basically told _me_ he was gonna tell Santa not to bother with us,” Sam accused like the brat he was.

“Jesus, Sam. What’d you think he was gonna do?”

“I dunno. I didn’t think it’d mean no presents at _all_ , though. Do you? Really?”

“Probably not _no_ presents,” Dean conceded. “But not any damn toy, either.”

“Dean!” Sam sat up. “What’re you gonna do for your Secret Santa present? You didn’t get anything before Dad brought us home.”

“I know,” Dean said irritably. Secret Santas and Jill Hingenberg were the last things he cared about tonight. “I’ll think of something, though.”

“Is it Mike?”

“No. It’s a girl.” At Sam’s curled lip and scrunched up nose, he explained why he wasn’t worried about it. “I can probably just give her something gay like a flower or a handmade card and she’ll be gooey over it.”

Sam instantly saw the danger in the plan. “Won’t she like you, then?”

“Doesn’t matter. Friday’s the last day and we’re not coming back in January.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” Sammy snorted, so Dean provided the logic behind his assertion. “Dad said we’re leaving soon. Probably we’ll stay until Christmas, ’cause it’s so close. But just wait; during the school break, we’ll move again.”

“Oh.” Sam went quiet and Dean held his breath. Maybe Sam would go to sleep, now that he had been “let in” on the plan? No such luck. Apparently, he was still intent on acting like Curious George. Three heartbeats later, Sam asked: “Would you _want_ her to like you?”

“No,” Dean said in disgust, thinking that Sam should already know the answer to that particularly stupid question. “She’s a girl. Girls are gross, Sammy.”

“I know. Sally’s really gross.”

Dean grabbed on to the welcome change of topic. “Sally’s the one that always wants you to play tea party?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, screwing up his nose again like he smelled something rotten.

“Well, don’t worry,” he commiserated. “It’s almost over. Trust me, after this week, you’ll never have to see her again.”

Eventually he got Sam to go to sleep. Dean lay awake for a long time, thoughts spinning, waiting for Dad to get home. One of the things he disliked about this place was that Dad had to park so far away. He couldn’t hear the rumble of the engine the way he could when Dad parked right in front of a motel room. It took a lot of concentration to listen for the tiny click of the key in the lock and the creak of the door opening. He fell asleep long before early morning, when his father finally rolled in.

~*~

John slept the morning away. When he got up, he set Dean up cleaning and sharpening the knives in his room, starting with the knife he’d used on the Askefrue’s tree. It was sufficiently sticky with sap that Dean would have to put his shoulder into scraping it completely clean. He left Dean with oil, cloth, a bit of steel wool, and both a whetstone for the straight blades and a sharpener for the serrated edges.

He called Bobby while Sam was on laundry detail in the basement. He’d kept the boys separated more as punishment than anything, but letting Sam see the number and variety of his weapons in one place would inevitably lead to questions neither he nor Dean wanted to answer today. “Think I found something,” Bobby told him. “Black dog in Delevan, Wisconsin.”

“Great.” While John took down the details, Dean crossed into the bathroom to clean the knife under the sink. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“So you’re haring off already?” There was no attempt to mask Bobby’s disapproval.

“No reason to wait,” John replied coolly. “It shouldn’t take more than two days. And if it does, the boys’ll be done with school by then and I can move them closer over the weekend.”

“Leaving this close to Chr—”

“Swear to God, Singer, don’t say it.” 

There was a pause. “Okay, I won’t.”

“I only called to find out if you had a line on a hunt,” John continued testily. “Not for a parenting lesson from a crusty bach—”

“Swear to God, Winchester, don’t you _dare_ say it.”

It was as close to a death threat as John had ever heard Bobby get. “Fair enough,” he said, backing off. He’d hit some kind of nerve, which was a rare occurrence with Bobby. Come to think of it, he never had asked why Bobby had started hunting. Almost everyone in the line had some horror story to cite. He’d always assumed that a man’s tragedy was his own private affair. He rubbed his temple against a growing headache. He couldn’t think of a way to apologize without making things even more awkward, so he brought the conversation back to safe territory: shop talk. “Oh, the mistletoe thing didn’t quite work the way you thought.”

“Didja hafta kiss her, after all?” John could hear Bobby trying to hide his smile. As quickly as that, the man was back on good terms. John sometimes marveled at Bobby’s even temper. Made him all the more dangerous when he actually was pissed off.

“No,” he said, clearing his throat, “though I know you’d’ve liked the video for that. No. It didn’t do anything to bring her out, but it’s one helluva binding agent once she was in the branch.”

“Huh. Good to know.” Bobby paused. Then, carefully, as if treading around a sleeping rattlesnake, he ventured, “So, Ralph and Potsie—Jim gonna check in on them?”

“Yeah. I have a plan for that,” John said, tone business-like, even if his wince was not particularly stoic. 

“Well, Hallelujah, John,” Bobby declared, full of sarcasm. “You have a plan.”

“Oh, kiss my ass.” That Bobby had bristled again so quickly didn’t surprise John; that he’d butt in so readily after they’d just sort of agreed to stay out of each other’s business not only caught him off guard, it pissed him off. 

Bobby snorted, but the sound was anything but amused. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Winchester.” Bobby hung up on him.

John often thought the reason they got along so well was that they put up with each other’s moods. Or perhaps it was because they didn’t get permanently offended by each other’s moods. 

Once he had his new hunt identified, John moved on to the next item on his to-do list. He pulled on his coat and hat, shaking the conversation with Bobby off with a promise that he’d remember to bring some of the good whiskey before the next time he dropped in on the old coot. Bobby meddled mostly because his own affection for the boys rivaled John’s. Surpassed it, sometimes, since Bobby had the luxury of not actually having to call them on the carpet when they’d just piddled there. That wasn’t entirely fair: Bobby did take care of them more often than John wished he had to; he’d even faced his share of Sam’s or Dean’s scrapes in John’s absence. Still, he could afford to be lenient in ways that John couldn’t, chalking it up to youthful indiscretion. John was all too aware that the wrong kind of youthful indiscretion could spell Youth Services knocking on their door. 

John suspected that Dean and Sammy never tested Bobby the way they tested him, either.

“Dean, going out,” he called, grabbing his keys and the ad from the paper.

Dean poked his head out from John’s room. “Yes, sir.”

He passed Sam on the stairs. Sam dragged the bags of laundry by their straps, pausing at each step to climb backward up the next one in a steady rhythm: step, heave, bump.

“Dean’s in my room. Fold the laundry and leave him alone to do his work.” He took a step, then turned back. “Remember, no TV.”

“Okay,” Sam said, in a voice that made it plain he didn’t need, or wish, to be reminded. Sam pulled on his load and continued on: step, heave, bump. If he was still pissed about losing out on his major Christmas present, it was hard to tell, but John knew his youngest son better than to expect anything else.

All the more reason, John told himself, to get back on a straightforward hunt without having to tiptoe around the boys to do it.

He found the store he wanted and asked a bunch of questions about his items of interest—range, battery life and power, signal strength, frequencies, plans—and made a selection: a matched pair. He could transfer the activation to Wisconsin next week, but he wanted Dean to have the thing now. John thought of it as a more reliable way to keep tabs on them when he wasn’t right on hand. 

He headed back to the apartment and let himself into his room. Dean had the knives arranged methodically on the old blanket and was wiping the last blade with a tiny bit of oil. A scrap of leather lay on the bed next to him, scarred with dozens of small cuts. 

“Got something for you,” John told him as he stepped around the bed. He picked up one of the knives and carefully shaved a forearm hair to test the edge.

Dean set aside the rag and the blade and looked up expectantly.

John nodded approval over the knife in his hand before putting it down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little bag of electronics. Sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully so as not to jostle the knives, he dumped out the bag. He picked up one of the two devices and handed it to Dean.

“It’s a pager,” he explained. “We’ll have to update it when we move, but this way, we can stay in touch a little better.”

Dean studied the pager. “Guess I really effed up, huh?” he said with a pathetic little laugh, a self-deprecating nod.

“Yeah, but that’s not what this is about,” John said evenly. He let his hands, cupped around one another, hang loose between his legs. “This is about me giving you a way to contact me. And me a way to contact you. So I don’t have to worry so much when I have to leave you alone.”

Dean ran his thumb over the tiny box. “How’s it work?”

A smile ghosted across John’s face. Dean loved machines, no matter what the circumstances. “You use your calling card to dial the pager number.” He turned the pager over to show him the small digits on the back. “Punch in the phone number where you can be reached. Then the dispatching agency sends that number to my pager. It beeps and shows me the number. And I call you.”

“Anytime?” Dean looked up at him. It was clear he hoped this meant he could be in contact instantly, whenever he wanted to talk about anything.

John let a corrective “Hm” precede his amendment, “Most of the time.” He twitched his eyebrows with a half-sorry smile. “We’ll still have check-ins, and I’ll try to be where the signal can reach me at least some of the time. There are places where I won’t get coverage. And it has a good range, but if I’m not where it can catch me, it won’t go through. The company has to activate it for the region we’re—I’m—in, so if you try and I don’t call back…try again in an hour or so.”

“Cool,” Dean said. He played idly with the clip on the pager holster and tapped the little display box on the end. “How will you know it’s me?”

“Well, we’ll need a code,” John said, noting Dean’s suppressed grin with satisfaction. He was still young enough that codes and passwords were more fun than strategic, even if he understood the necessity for them. John scratched his chin. “When you call me, add 124 to the beginning of the return number. If I’m calling you, I’ll add 89.”

“Why?”

John’s mouth quirked. “Birthdays.”

Dean nodded again. His hand found the nearest knife hilt and he turned his head to look back at the array of weapons. “Do you want me to take these to the car?”

“I’ll do that. I want you to practice hitting the dartboard with this toothpick.” John handed him one of the small throwing knives. He pointed to a foam dartboard tacked up on a plywood board, all of which was attached to the bedroom wall. He squared Dean off at ten paces, which put him basically against the opposite wall. John drew the shades to cover the window, although the neighbors could hardly see in through the filthy glass. “Fifty throws each, right and left, buddy. Y’never know when you’ll need to use your off-hand.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean waited for John to stand next to him before he took his first throw. 

John made corrections after collecting the knife. “Less wrist. Just let it go half a second earlier. Don’t lean forward so much. That’s it.”

He watched Dean throw a few more times until the knife stuck each time. On the tenth throw, he told Dean that he’d be pulling out after taking them to school on Monday. “I’ll be back to get you at the end of the week at the latest. We’ll spend Christmas somewhere new.”

Dean paused. He pursed his lips tightly in resignation.

“You okay, son?” John asked.

Dean relaxed and let his disappointment go. “Yessir,” he said, and went back to throwing.

John had him switch hands, corrected his form, and then gathered the other knives in a duffel bag and left him to it. In the living room, he judged Sam’s progress on the laundry. Little piles of socks, underwear, t-shirts, jeans, and the like littered the furniture. The TV, true to John’s orders, remained off—part of the general punishment imposed on both boys.

“When you’re done, pack everything except three days’ worth for you and your brother,” John instructed. “You can do a last load on Friday when you’re off school.”

“Yessir,” Sam said, almost military in his exuberance.

John brought the knife bag down to the car. After a quick check around for witnesses, he opened the false bottom and stowed the weapons inside. He came back upstairs. Sam was stuffing the duffel bags with the piles.

“Done?” he asked Sam.

“Yup.”

“Good. Dean!” he called into the back room.

Dean came out. “Sir?”

“All finished?”

Dean’s eyes dropped down and to the right, as if John had asked because he’d figured out how much time it should have taken, and Dean had failed to complete the task in that amount. “Done on the right. Forty-five on the left,” he said sheepishly.

John nodded, careful to make his frown more about meeting expectations than any suggestion of disappointment. “Well, finish up then and we’ll go out for dinner.”

“Yessir.” Dean kept his face blank, but as he walked away, he pulled his elbow back in a pumping motion of victory.

After dinner, John made them push the furniture to the edges of the room. Then he drilled them: situps, pushups, and light sparring with himself as their punching bag. His one concession to Dean’s health was to set them both the same number of each exercise, instead of the usual 20% increase for Dean.

“Showers and bed,” he told them after half an hour of kickboxing with each boy. If they had anything to say about his harder, harsher attitude, they obviously guessed it would be unwise to voice the objections.

John clicked on the TV to cover the sounds of their whispered conversation in their room. Last night, he’d sat here waiting for Gina’s call, wanting a drink and unable to indulge. He needed that whiskey tonight; and tomorrow, he needed to give himself some distance.

~*~

Dad slept much of Sunday, but when he got up, he was all business. Dean hadn’t dared turn on the TV, since he was pretty sure that would be one of the privileges they both lost, but he hadn’t figured on Dad keeping them doing separate chores, either. Soon Dean was shut up in his father’s room sharpening a bunch of knives and Sam was banished to the basement laundry facility. 

The first one was a real mess, covered in something gooey and stuck on. He’d wound up running the steel under hot water to loosen the stuff, then using another blade in addition to the steel wool to scrape it off. Dad must have been really wiped when he’d come in, to leave his knife all covered in crap like that. Dean wondered what Dad had been hunting that bled something so syrupy. It took him nearly half an hour just to get that one clean, and run through the serrated sharpener, but after that, things went faster.

Sharpening the knives was surprisingly calming. There was a soothing routine to oiling the whetstone, scraping the knife gently, twisting the wrist to get an even edge to both sides. It helped to know that Dad still trusted him with this, wanted him to help him prepare for the next job. Though it hurt a little that Dad wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t talk to him except to tell him what task to do next, Dean at least had the assurance that he hadn’t interfered with Dad’s work too terribly. And he’d rather clean weapons than clothes and dishes, any day.

Dean heard Dad on the phone with Uncle Bobby. A little while later, Dad went out and Sam came in.

“I’m in Dad’s room—don’t come in,” Dean called to the living room. He didn’t need Dad to tell him to keep Sam away from all the knives. Not that Sam wouldn’t know how to handle one, because he did, but the sight of them all laid out together would make Sam start a round of twenty questions Dean didn’t want to play.

“I know—Dad said,” Sam yelled back. “Wish we could watch TV,” he shouted a few seconds later.

“Wouldn’t chance it,” Dean warned.

“I didn’t say I was gonna,” Sam said petulantly. “What’re you doing?”

“Stuff.” He scraped a blade over the whetstone, taking satisfaction in the rhythm.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s this doing here?”

Dean paused. “Can’t see through walls, dumbass.”

“There’s a plant thing out here by the phone.”

Dean set the knife and whetstone kit aside and came out. Sam held up a sprig of something with green leaves and yellowish-white berries. “It was on the floor,” Sam explained, pointing under the little table for the phone.

Dean remembered Dad setting out a small parcel the night before. But it had been dark and he hadn’t seen what it was. “It’s mistletoe,” he said, now that he could see it clearly.

“What’s it doing here?”

“I guess Dad got some,” Dean said noncommittally. He was sure that the mistletoe had to do with whatever job Dad had finished last night, but of course, he couldn’t tell Sam that without a lot of questions resulting.

Sam was going to ask questions anyway. 

“But why?” he asked, right on cue.

“I dunno. Give it.” He snatched it away, both to shut down the subject and to look more closely. Sam scowled, but surrendered without a scuffle. There had been more last night, so Dean guessed Dad had used what he needed. He was certainly acting like the hunt had ended, which made sense, since it was almost Christmas, and they’d planned to all be somewhere together like always. So if Dad didn’t need it, maybe…. He went into their room for the water glass. Sam followed him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Secret Santa,” Dean muttered, putting the mistletoe in the water. “Maybe. Better go finish your chores.” He retreated into Dad’s room before Sam could pester him any more.

When Dad came home, he gave him a pager. Then he told Dean that he and Sam would be on their own for the rest of the week. Dean had known they’d be leaving, all of them, before the end of the year, but it was a little surprising to hear Dad say he’d be taking off so close to Christmas, and without them. It was typical of Dad to want to bug out as soon as he finished a job, move on to the next. But usually they went together.

On one hand, it felt good—normal, like Dad trusted him to take care of things while he was gone. This time, Dean figured it meant that and more. It meant Dad was giving himself some space. Dean had seen it in his father’s face during their talk the night before—he wasn’t as angry about the thing with Sam’s teachers as he was making it seem. But he was really angry, and maybe a little hurt, that they’d both deceived him about it all.

Probably, Dean realized, if Sam had asked about getting out of the dreaded pageant, Dad would have even helped them come up with something. Even if things had gone down the same, except that they’d just told him they’d fooled Sam’s teacher after it happened, Dad would have been okay with it.

Well, not okay. But at least he wouldn’t have been as upset. So upset that he couldn’t bear to be around them anymore, had to get away from them, had to leave them by themselves again. Dean wondered if Dad would have pulled them out early and dumped them with Pastor Jim or Uncle Caleb or even Uncle Bobby if it hadn’t been Christmas. Probably. He was only coming back to pick them up at the end of the week because then it would be Christmas and they were never not together.

“You okay, son?” Dad asked.

Dean snapped out of his thoughts, realizing that they must be showing on his face. He relaxed his shoulders. Dad needed him to be strong. Dad needed him to handle things on his own. He needed to prove that he could do it, that Dad’s faith in him wasn’t misplaced. “Yessir,” he said confidently. Dad seemed pleased. He told Dean to switch hands and moved in to correct his left-handed form. Dean leaned in a little bit, just so he could commit to memory the way Dad’s hand felt over his: rough, calloused, strong, gentle. Then Dad left him to throw, and think. 

Next morning, Dad dropped him at school with a quick chuck on the chin and a reminder to be good, then left with Sam in tow to meet Sam’s doom. Dean felt bad for his brother—no one should have to go eat crow for a teacher, let alone twice in one day. Plus he was sure the other kids would take out their own envy and derision on Sam when they found out—and they’d find out. They always did.

~*~

Sam felt Dad’s hand on his shoulder steer him into room 305. “Miss Johnson?” Dad said in the doorway. “Sam had something he’d like to tell you.”

Miss Johnson came into the hallway and smiled a little crookedly. She was afraid of Dad, Sam could tell. Sam couldn’t blame her, but he knew that Dad was only dangerous and scary when he was angry. And right now, Dad wasn’t angry at _her_.

He’d spent most of Sunday sleeping, and when he hadn’t been sleeping, he’d been ordering them around. Sam and Dean had barely been able to stay awake that night, after the workout he gave them both after dinner. The one thing Dean had managed to tell Sam was that he’d been right: Dad was leaving again. Right after he made sure Sam apologized properly. 

Sam was sure Dad was still ticked off at him and Dean both. He knew it because Dad had barely said three words to him that weren’t, “Fold the laundry” or, “You’re sweeping your leg too wide” or, “Get those knees up.” It wasn’t like he had to scold them, at least. They’d been on their best behavior. Fresh trouble did that—made them extra careful about doing things Dad wouldn’t like. Still didn’t keep him from finding a million things to correct.

“Sam?” Miss Johnson said, bringing him back to the task before him. Other kids were arriving; Dad pushed Sam further down the hall for a little privacy.

“I…I lied. M’sorry. We’re not Jonah’s witnesses.”

“Jehovah,” Dad muttered softly.

“Je _ho_ vah’s witnesses,” Sam corrected.

Miss Johnson looked over Sam’s head at Dad. 

“I had a feeling something wasn’t adding up right,” Dad said. His hand felt heavy on Sam’s shoulder. “Took me a little while to track it down.” Dad explained that last to her like she’d asked for his help and he hadn’t jumped to respond, like he owed her an apology. It was bad enough to have to apologize to Miss Johnson himself; but the idea that Dad was going to have to eat crow on his behalf made him made him feel about six inches tall.

“But…Mr. Winchester, your son, Dean, he—”

“He lied,” Dad said. “If it makes you feel any better, they lied to me, too.”

“I don’t understand.” Miss Johnson crouched in front of Sam. “Sam, why would you do such a thing?” She reached out to touch his upper arm, rubbing it as if to reassure him she wasn’t mad so much as confused.

Sam wanted to back away, get some distance, but Dad was right there, so he had to stand his ground. “Dean was just…he knew I didn’t want to be in the pageant. So he made it up. An’ I let him.” He twisted around to look at Dad. If he expected a look of support or commendation, he was disappointed.

“I see,” Miss Johnson said sadly. She dropped her hand and stood up. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said to Dad.

“Boys tell lies,” Dad said. It was odd, the look that they exchanged. And Dad’s tone was like the voice he used when explaining something about the car to Dean, or showing Sam how to safely handle a pistol. “Took me a while to get to the bottom of it, seeing as how I didn’t have a lot of help on this end.” That wasn’t an apology; it was an accusation.

It didn’t surprise Sam that Dad would dress down his teacher in front of him. Dad’s barbs were bound to be close to the surface since he was so mad at him and Dean. “So I told Sam you’d have to tell him how to make up for his deception,” Dad continued.

“Oh.” Miss Johnson smiled her own apology. “Well, I’m afraid it’s far too late to add him back in to the pageant. Perhaps if I’d known—”

Dad cleared his throat.

“—If I’d _listened_ last week,” she amended, with a weird look at Dad. “But the performance is Thursday. There’s just not enough time. Besides, Sam’s lines have all been reassigned. You understand we can’t take them away from the children twice, not after all the work—”

“I was thinking there might be something else Sam could do. To help, maybe,” Dad said. He had his fake-patient face on, the one he used when he was being just barely polite, but really he wanted to cut through the crap and just get on with it.

“Yes?” Miss Johnson wondered. “Oh, yes. I’m sure we can find something for Sam. Maybe backstage.”

“Good.” Dad squeezed Sam’s shoulder to move him out and they repeated the exercise with Mrs. Farnsworth. Her reaction was to bump Sam’s star count down to three red ones—the lowest color, but at least he was still ahead of Travis Strong, who only had one red star and spent even more time with Miss Nolan than anyone else in class. 

“Mr. Winchester, I was going to tell you that we recommended counseling for Sam,” Mrs. Farnsworth told Dad. Sam gulped. “But under the circumstances, I think it’s clear what was leading him to misbehave in class.”

“Misbehave?” Dad’s eyes narrowed.

“Well…he took a little ribbing, you might say, because he wasn’t in the pageant. I think Sam may already understand that being on the outside looking in may not necessarily be its own reward.” She glanced down at Sam, who flushed.

“I’m pretty sure he’s figured that out,” Dad said. “Excuse us.” Sam felt him press on his shoulder again to take him a pace away into the hall. He bent over, facing Sam. “Misbehaving?”

“I didn’t, Dad,” Sam told him. “Jenner Martin threw a truck at me.”

Dad “humphed” like the Sour Kangaroo in that Horton book Sam had read while his class had been treated to cartoons. “Dean will pick you up this afternoon, remember?” His eyes flicked up to Mrs. Farnsworth and back to Sam—a warning to play it cool and normal.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few days,” he said low enough that only Sam could hear. Mrs. Farnsworth was still kinda watching them, so Dad gave him a hug, trying not to make it look awkward. Then Dad pushed him away with a hand on his shoulder. Another manful squeeze and a solemn nod of his head, and Dad walked away.

“Sam?” Mrs. Farnsworth called him after Dad had hit the stairs. Sam could still hear his footsteps clatter and echo in the hall.

“Coming,” Sam told her.

Getting through that day was tough. The kids found out—who knew how—that he’d lied to get out of the pageant. Some of the fourth graders shoved him around at lunch and took his bag of Oreos. Kris and Sally wouldn’t talk to him. Jenner called him a phony and got about half the other kids to call him that too, behind Mrs. Farnsworth’s back.

After school he went to the auditorium with everyone else. “Sam, come with me,” Miss Nolan said. “You’ll be helping backstage.”

“Huh?”

“You’re going to help me with props and the curtain. Come on.”

While the others practiced, Miss Nolan showed him all the things he needed to do and remember. By the time they were done, Dean was there. “C’mon, short stuff,” Dean said, leading him out of the building.

“How’d it go?” Dean asked him as they walked.

“Sucked.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He walked a few paces. “Sucked how bad?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m down to three red stars and I hafta be with Miss Nolan backstage. They’re letting me pull the curtain.” Sam half-smiled. “Actually that’s not so bad. Jimmy Drake took my Oreos at lunch—don’t worry,” he said quickly to stop Dean from getting protective, “I put a dead mouse in his lunch box while I was backstage. An’ Kris won’t talk to me—but neither will Sally, so that’s not necessarily a bad thing. What about you?”

“I didn’t have to explain to anyone,” Dean said simply. “Well, except Mike.”

“What’d he think?”

“He thought it was too bad we got caught. And he asked if Dad would lose his job. I told him it was a crap job in the first place, and anyway, he stopped the place from burning down.” Dean grinned, slapping Sam’s shoulder. “Mike said they should give Dad a medal instead of a pink slip.”

Sam agreed with Dean’s friend’s admiration. Dad was a hero for stopping the fire, even if he had left again and neither he nor Dean would say where he was going. Maybe he was going to the North Pole to narc on them. Then again, maybe the presents really had nothing to do with Santa. Maybe it was all Dad. He wanted to ask. But he could tell Dean was fishing for a reaction. “Mike’s kinda cool,” he said. He’d ask about Santa later.

“Yeah. M’gonna miss him, I guess.”

“I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“Hah. Kinda backward, innit?” Dean kicked him lightly with the outside of his boot.

Sam retaliated with a kidney punch. It didn’t do much damage through all Dean’s layers.

~*~

The rest of the week passed pretty much without incident. Dad had stopped the papers, so there was no mail. Dean used down the food and they packed up to prepare to go. When Dean’s new pager went off or the phone rang for Dad’s check-ins, they turned off the TV. 

Wednesday night, Dean’s pager went off with the 89 code. He took out his card and dialed the number. “Dean?” Dad answered the phone.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up? Are you okay?”

Dad hummed in the affirmative. “I’m fine. I’ll be in late Thursday night,” he said sharply.

“Okay,” Dean said with optimism.

“Okay, listen up: You have a half-day Friday, but Sam’s home,” Dad told him briskly. “So I want you both to pack up Thursday after school before I get in. Friday, I’ll pick you up directly from school with Sam and we’ll leave right from there, so make sure you’ve got everything before you go to school that day.”

“Got it,” Dean assured him.

“Everything all right?” It was an invitation to talk, but Dean didn’t want to show any sign that he couldn’t take care of things without Dad around.

“Yeah. We’re fine,” he said confidently.

“Good. Be sure you and Sam do 100 sit-ups before bed tonight.” Dad had been stepping up the training all week, even long-distance.

“Yes, sir.”

Dad’s voice turned gentler. “Tell Sammy I’m sorry I won’t be back for the pageant.”

“He’s pulling the curtain, Dad, he doesn’t care.”

“Tell him anyway, ” Dad said quietly.

“Yes, sir.” Dad didn’t ask about Dean’s Secret Santa, so Dean didn’t tell him what he had planned.

Thursday was trash night in the building, so after they’d packed up everything but the week’s dirty laundry, Dean went down to the basement in search of some colored paper or old comics as wrapping for the mistletoe. He found some leftover pieces of wrapping paper in Mr. Harvey’s trash. It smelled a tiny bit like aftershave, which Dean thought was kind of appealing. 

Dad hadn’t come home by the time they went to bed, but Dean heard him snoring when he got up in the morning. He moved around quietly so that Dad and Sam could both sleep in. Dad had left a note in the kitchen, reminding Dean to make sure anything he wanted to take was packed, because Dad and Sam would be packing up the car without him.

Dean put the wrapped mistletoe in his bag and walked to school the direct way, straight up Elm Street, which cut about five minutes off the time it was out in the cold. Right after English class, just before the end of the half-day, they exchanged presents.

“Class, listen!” Mrs. Fontana demanded. “When I tell you and not before, Jason Cartwright, those of you who are participating in the exchange will all get out your presents—no talking!—and sit at your desks. You will go and come back quickly with no talking and no dawdling, Emily Summers. Once you return to your desks you will close your eyes. No peeking! That includes you, Rebecca. Does everyone understand so far?”

They all nodded or said, “Yes” to confirm the orders.

“When I call your name, you may open your eyes and place your gift on the desk of the person whose name you drew. Then go back to your desk and close your eyes again. Once all the gifts are distributed, I will tell you all to open your eyes and you may then open your presents.”

Dean raised his hand.

“Yes, Dean?” Mrs. Fontana said, a touch testily.

“We don’t get to find out…I mean, we don’t give them to each other just…normal?” He’d been counting on explaining the mistletoe to Jill.

“If you want to reveal yourself to your recipient, Dean, that’s up to you. But after the exchange.” She adjusted her glasses. “Any more questions? No? Good. All right, everyone: Go get your presents.”

The room erupted. Dean didn’t move. He reached into his bookbag for the mistletoe. He was pleased that the corners of the paper were only slightly bent, and that the aftershave smell had stayed. He also pulled out a piece of notebook paper and scribbled a hasty note:

****

  
**Dear Jill:**

****

**Mistletoe is special. It protects you from bad things. Find me later before you go home and I’ll tell you how to use it.**

**—Dean W.**

He folded the note and closed his eyes.

Mrs. Fontana went in order, of course. He found himself drifting off as the names were called. It wasn’t that he meant to zone out, but he’d been up late packing, and waiting for Dad to make it home…. “Dean. Dean, wake up. It’s your turn.”

He opened his eyes and there was a wrapped present on his desk already, next to his pretty sad-looking gift. Not surprising; there was only one other kid after “Winchester.”

He took the note and the herb and set them on Jill’s desk. Then he sat back down. He heard Steve Wolcott move around and then settle.

“All right. You may all open your eyes.”

The class began talking as soon as they could see again, as if their mouths and their eyes were spiritually connected. Dean tore open the wrapping on his present. Inside were two Matchbox cars: a Mustang convertible and the 1968 Camaro he’d admired in the toy store. Dean looked over at Mike, who grinned at him.

“Cool,” Dean called. Mike gave him the thumbs-up.

Dean looked over at Jill. She stared at the mistletoe, read the note, and stared at the mistletoe again. She looked up and over the two rows to Dean’s desk.

Dean shrugged, as if to apologize for the lameness of his present. But Jill blushed and smiled at him shyly. Dean found that odd, but maybe she was reading more into the note than he meant.

When class ended and they were released from school, Jill came to find him in the hall. He was stacking up his books in his locker and pulling out the two or three personal items he’d stashed there.

“Dean! I had no idea you could be so romantic!” she said breathily. She held up the mistletoe over their heads and kissed him. On the lips.

“Ycch,” Dean said, wiping his mouth. “What’d’ja do that for? It’s just mistletoe.”

“Exactly!” Jill said.

“Huh?”

“Well, isn’t that the special thing about mistletoe you were going to explain to me?” She twisted one ankle inward, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Uh. No,” Dean said, bewildered by her flirting. “Mistletoe’s protective and it’s a good luck charm. If you wear it pinned inside your jacket, you won’t get hurt. And if you hang it on your hearth all year, it’ll keep you safe from fires.”

Jill laughed at him. “Duh. That’s not what it’s for. People kiss under it, silly!”

“They do?” Dean’s eyes slid side to side in disbelief.

“Uh…yeah,” Jill said, like it was obvious. “I’ve never heard of any of that other stuff.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve never heard of…oh,” he stopped, remembering the words to some Christmas songs, and Christmas specials on TV. “Oh, yeah. I guess. I guess people do kiss under it. Kinda. Yeah.” He scratched his head, wondering what to do with the information, and whether Jill would make a scene or something.

“Wanna try again?” 

Dean bit his lip. He hadn’t really noticed before how blue Jill’s eyes were, or the way her nose curved up at the tip. Maybe if she didn’t take him by surprise this time, kissing her wouldn’t feel as gross. “Okay.”

Jill held up the mistletoe and closed her eyes. Dean pressed his mouth against hers and their lips interlocked. Dean tried to move his lips experimentally, like he’d seen in movies in between the good parts. Jill giggled and they broke apart.

“That was weird.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, all too happy to pull away. He cleared his throat. “Well, I gotta go,” he told her before it could get any more awkward. “Bye, Jill.”

“Bye, Dean. Merry Christmas!” she called as he walked away. “Hey: See you next year!”

He twisted to wave over his shoulder and didn’t correct her.

Dad and Sam were waiting for him in the car.


End file.
